Title: What I Need
Parts: Three
Pairings: 4+Cathrine
Warnings: Violence

Quatre dreamed that night, of Cathrine in the desert, draped in yards of shimmering, pale silk. The dazzling warmth of her eyes caught him, and the graceful curve of her limbs beckoned him. The sand hadn't been hot on his feet when he crossed to her. When his fingers reached out to grasp the edge of her dress he hadn't felt the press of heat, only emptiness and loss when she vanished. The ache had been endless, as wide as the barren land sprawling out before him. And it left him with a sadness he had only felt a few times in his life.

Waking, warm and oddly discontent, he wondered at the significance and was embarrassed at where his subconscious mind had taken him. If dreams were windows to the soul, he had a yearning for something he couldn't have.

Sitting now, in the kitchen, he absently read the paper while inhaling the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee in front of him. If it were only as easy as that to wake up fully. Since he was an early riser by nature, a fact which had been honed to an exact time after regular work days became the norm, he needed just that first cup of caffeine to help him get started. It was not unlike a car requiring gasoline. Neither system ran well without their fuel.

Turning a page, the quiet, settled feel of the house reminded him of the many times Rashid had pestered him to get a housekeeper. He just couldn't see the point. He wasn't here enough, and when he was gone, he only employed a cleaner to come in every now and then to dust. He thought living here, all the time, without anyone else would be too lonely a task to ask of anyone. Besides, as obviously stylish as the house was, it still wasn't all that large. There were only two floors, and a handful of rooms. It didn't require servants, he didn't require servants, and no amount of wheedling from Rashid was going to get him to hire any.

The headlines had been what really caught his attention. There was a photograph of Relena, looking more self-assured and in control than he had ever seen her, while she talked of her latest project. It was one he had also invested his time and energy in. The relations between Earth and space could _always_ use a little nudge, and a bit of guidance. Four years had passed since the end of the war, but as with most things, cooperation between the two powers was a slowly progressing journey. With Relena at the helm, however, more comfortable in her position than she had been even four years before, he had seen some remarkable changes. She worked hard, and the results of her labors were very evident.

If only her personal life went more smoothly, he thought, with a small shake of his head.

It was not, however, as if he had any room to speak. His own personal life was as non-existent as Relena's. In that respect, they could bond. To fill the emptiness, they worked all that much harder. But neither, being as they were, dwelt on that reality. There were more important things to concentrate on than their mutual loneliness. And Quatre knew, he would rather spend eternity by himself than ever settle for anything less than a partner in every respect of the word.

Blinking the sleep from her eyes, Cathrine settled in the doorway, finding the kitchen only filled by Quatre's presence. His pale blonde head was bent over the paper, one knee peaking out from the side of the table, telling her he sat again in some contorted way that would have made a circus performer proud. The welcome scent of coffee lingered, teasing her and setting her stomach to rumbling. Breakfast sounded like a very wonderful option at the moment, but as Trowa had so artfully pointed out the night before, her culinary skills were limited. Which meant breakfast, for her, consisted of toast and some eggs always a step away from burnt.

She wasn't sure if it was grogginess, or the peaceful picture Quatre made that kept her unmoving for so long, but as she watched, slim fingers reached up to curl around the cup and bring it to his lips without removing his eyes from the paper. She admired the control in the absence of any real thought, and wished her coordination was as great first thing in the morning. When he looked up, face smooth, eyes clear, and smile welcoming, she resented him. No one should look as perfect as that. Her own eyes were puffy, a blanket line was pressed into her cheek, and she had been unable to tame her hair enough to please her.

Everything he did seemed to turn out well. It was annoying. Could the man just be a little imperfect, could he mess up just the slightest, so the rest of the mere mortals could feel somewhat better? Next to him, she felt rumpled, grumpy, and out of place. And she didn't care for the feeling at all.

"Good morning, Cathrine," he greeted, setting his paper down.

She nodded, not trusting herself to keep her tone from sounding nasty.

"There's some freshly made coffee, or orange juice if you'd like something to drink," he offered.

She moved into the kitchen, already gravitating to toward the coffee machine, and not at all surprised a line of mugs hung above it, suspended from hooks drilled into the cabinet. Of course Quatre would be that efficient, that thoughtful.

"Did you make the orange juice yourself too?" She quipped, reaching for a mug.

She missed his smile, but heard his laughter. Clear, warm, and undeniable male. "No, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but it came from a carton."

"Then I'm glad I chose coffee," she replied, turning to press her back against the counter as she sipped.

"You like it black too," he commented, more a statement than a question.

"It isn't coffee if it isn't black."

He silently agreed.

She looked around, searching. "Where's Trowa?"

Quatre rose, settling next to her to refill his cup. She caught the faint scent of soap and after-shave that clung to him. It, too, was clean, a no-nonsense smell that revealed more of his personality than he was probably aware. When his hip pressed into hers as he shifted, she felt warmth there, and had to fight the urge to jerk away from the unexpected flash.

"He left early this morning with Rashid. He and the Maguanacs are working on a project that restores broken down planes to give the nearby town more options of transportation. Rashid asked for Trowa's help, and they both set out on camel."

Cathrine was surprised, and more than a little disconcerted to know she was alone with Quatre (though the reasoning for it was beyond her; she was no coward, and had always loved to be around people), but she had to smile at the image of Trowa riding a camel. If anyone could control the beast, however, it would be her brother. He had a way with all animals. The more difficult, the better.

"Did he say when they would be back?" She questioned, hoping her tone sounded casual.

"Before nightfall, was the closest I could get for a time from them," Quatre returned. If he recognized any ulterior motive in her question, he wasn't showing it.

It took effort to keep his eyes from her face and on his coffee. She looked wonderfully tousled, content, when she first woke up. Sleep lingered along the relaxed lines of her body, and her partially closed eyes, but she wore it well. Not unlike the way she wore the sleeveless blouse and slacks, her bare toes poking out beneath the cuffs. Perfume teased him when she shifted, and he had to fight the urge to reach out and tuck a wild strand of hair behind her ears.

That dream must have affected him more than he thought.

To steer his thoughts in another direction, he asked, "Would you like me to make you some breakfast?"

Irritation flashed in her eyes, catching him by surprise.

"I can at least make eggs, you know."

His smile was indulgent, so she thought, and only took more offense.

"Cathrine, I wasn't implying anything about your cooking. I haven't ate yet myself, so I thought I would make you something while I made mine."

Feeling mildly guilty that the subject was so touchy with her, she shrugged uncomfortably.

"Ah, sorry. Yes, please, I would like breakfast," she added, somewhat stiffly.

"Why don't you sit down and enjoy your coffee then?" He offered, indicating to the table. "The paper is there if you read."

Taking him up on his suggestion, she slid into a chair, eyes falling on him briefly as he moved through the kitchen with the ease of one who had done it often and was comfortable.

Sometimes, she thought he was just too polite. She had obviously been the one overreacting, and yet, he hadn't taken offense. For whatever reason, she wasn't sure if it annoyed her more or if she admired it. A good row could clear the air. Did he ever lose control and get mad? _Had_ he ever lost control and gotten mad, even once?

"Scrambled, poached, or fried?"

"Fried, please. I like to eat them over toast," she added, not certain why she had told him that, since it was useless information to him. He just had a way of pulling you into his confidence without even trying. She wasn't certain she liked that either.

He tossed her another bright smile over his shoulder. "It's good that way."

Feeling more off-center and out of balance than she usually did in the morning, she picked up the paper, hoping it would distract her from her puzzling thoughts on Quatre. She skimmed the headlines, noting Relena's picture there, and remembering her for who she was, though they had never met in person. Most of what she found wasn't anything new, but she was pleasantly surprised to find a small article on the circus. They had been on Earth for over a month now, traveling to places where they had drawn the largest attractions in the past. Since the article was favorable, her mood rose some, and the coffee began to do its work.

The smell of eggs frying soon mingled with the scent of coffee, creating a cozy atmosphere that was difficult to resist being drawn in to. Her mood improved more at the thought of food, and she began tapping her foot to the rhythm when Quatre reached across the stove to turn a radio on. Despite the fact that Trowa wasn't here, the day was starting to look up, and she thought that she would be able to find some way to pass the time pleasantly. If not, she was certain Quatre would offer. He was, after all, the consummate host.

Quatre caught her rise in spirits as he moved away from the stove to collect plates. Mornings, it seemed, didn't agree with her, so he was pleased that she was feeling better. For herself, and for him, he realized. Cathrine could get herself worked up fairly easily, and having her take a bite of out you wasn't what he would call fun. Especially not when her behavior prompted him to want to reply in kind. It was why, he worked doubly hard to be diplomatic, so that he could take away her reason for anger and restore harmony. He disliked fighting. He had done enough of it to fill a lifetime of lifetimes. He would do it no more.

Sliding the eggs out of the pan easily, three for him, two for her, he set them aside to cool while he saw to the toast. For now, to hold them, he made a piece each and cut them diagonally. He liked cooking. It was soothing, a way to let his wound up mind unravel at the end of the day. It was somewhat hard after running at full speed all day to adjust to the quiet and solitude of his empty house. To make the transition easier he liked simple routines that weren't to be rushed or the satisfaction of them was lost. And, he liked being self-sufficient, so cooking was only one way to prove that he was.

Passing Cathrine her plate, he sat back into his chair and set the paper aside to make more room. He noticed she dove in right away, obviously hungrier than she had been the night before.

"Did you sleep well?" He asked, around bites.

She swallowed, took a drink of coffee, and nodded. "It was the most comfortable bed I've ever slept in. I think I was out the minute my head hit the pillow."

"It was probably partly jet lag," he returned with an understanding smile.

"It's amazing how something as simple as time can mess your body up," she agreed, her mood improving with every bite.

The settled into their plates again, finishing off the last lingering bites.

"Thank you for doing the dishes last night, by the way," Quatre interjected.

"I thought I would earn my dinner. And besides, it's at least _something_ I can do well," she added, making a passing attempt at a joke.

"I'm sure there are many others," he corrected, rising to take her plate and his to the sink.

Watching him rinse them, Cathrine tried to shake the warmth his compliment gave her. Quatre was just that way. He wouldn't let others make disparaging remarks about themselves, and as far as she could tell, had always searched for the best in everyone. It was admirable, more for the fact that he succeeded, than he tried. She knew all about trying. It was the succeeding that often fell short of the mark.

"Since Trowa left us to our own devices, I thought we might take a swim," Quatre tossed over his shoulder, as he dried his hands on a nearby dishtowel.

Eagerness jumped, almost having her shouting the answer out like a child with no impulse control. She didn't want to sound like a completely inept, backward fool. Quatre probably had a pool at all his houses and used them whenever he felt like. She was certain her over-excitement wouldn't have that much affect on him, save for making her look like an idiot. He had already seen her at her very worst yesterday when she took offense to Trowa's comment. There was no reason to show him just how immature she could be as well.

He watched the light leap into her eyes, watched her struggle to reign it in, and remain as cool as possible. She was obviously fighting to look sophisticated, though he wasn't certain why she worked so hard at it. She was fine just the way she was, and he would rather have her exuberance over her calm anyday. He was around people all of the time who made business talk over dinner instead of conversation, whose small talk was stiff and formal, and who worked for hours to present the exact image of perfection. He wanted something real, and here, with his friends, he knew he could find it.

He would just have to give her an opening.

Draining the last of his coffee, he said, "I love swimming, myself. I don't get to do it very often. So if I act like an overexuberant child, you'll excuse my silliness, won't you?"

She smiled fully, for the first time since she had arrived. Caught up in the loveliness of that, Quatre didn't realize he was trying to put the mug in his pocket until she laughed.

"I think you want that in the sink."

He blinked. "What?" And then looked down.

Embarrassed, he offered her a sheepish smile. "I suppose my mind and body were in two different places."

"At least it was empty," she teased, still amused.

"I'm lucky for that," he agreed, thinking as he put the dirty cup in its rightful place, that he had met few things that could distract him that way, and even fewer people.

"We could change and then lie out while our stomachs settle," Cathrine suggested, moving in beside him.

"That's a good idea. I think we can both use the sun."

"We are both kind of pale..." she noted, and they exchanged a rueful glance rife with understanding.

She didn't know why that one simple accession would make her feel so connected to him, but when their eyes met, there was an undeniable shift in feelings. They both felt it, stilled, and remained, uncertain whether to acknowledge it or move on.

In the end, Quatre saved them both from further embarrassment by looking away.

Not sure whether she was relieved or disappointed, Cathrine rubbed at her arms and then moved to leave the kitchen.

"I'll just go change now," she said in parting, pausing only once on her way up the stairs to look back at him.

* * * *

The heat was scorching.

Cathrine had been places where the weather was near intolerable, but this was a different kind of heat altogether. Stifling and oppressive. She loved it. As soon as she thought her stomach had settled enough, it was going to make dipping in the pool a step closer to Heaven.

Pushing her sunglasses further up on her nose, she tried not to look over at Quatre, who was clad only in a pair of navy blue swim trunks. He had grown from a boy, into a man over the years, and the sight of him was more pleasing than she cared for it to be. The last thing she wanted was to be caught ogling him like some hormone struck teenager. Not only would it likely embarrass him, but it already embarrassed her. She didn't understand why this time, out of all the times she had seen him, he would make _this_ kind of impression on her. She had seen nice looking men, been attracted to enough to understand that was what this was, but not like this. And, admittedly, out of all of them, none were quite on Quatre's level.

Maybe that, aside from the fact that he was one of her brother's best friends, was why she was so uncomfortable with it.

Quatre shifted, keeping his eyes squeezed tightly shut. If he did that, then he wouldn't be tempted to look over at Cathrine, stretched out on a lounge chair in that poor excuse for a bikini. He was quite certain he had never seen anything cover less. It left miles of smooth skin and slim limbs exposed. Really, he knew he shouldn't be thinking this way. It was just a bathing suit. A bathing suit that Cathrine happened to be wearing, and it seemed, any time he looked at her anymore he could only think of how pretty she was when she smiled, when she frowned, or when she did nothing at all. Trowa was patient and open-minded, but he doubted his friend would appreciate Quatre staring at his sister and having such thoughts.

Still, it wasn't just her obvious beauty that attracted him. She was honest, and fresh, not deliberately polished and false like the women he often came into contact with. Cathrine was the kind you made a life with, the others were the kind you dated. She didn't hide who she was, or make apologies for it. When she was angry, she let you know. When she was happy, she let you know. When she was sad, she let you know. There was no guess work to find what lied behind her eyes. He liked that about her. And was surprised he only now noticed.

Cathrine sighed softly. She really wanted a moment where her thoughts were free from Quatre. It was ridiculous. She _was_ acting like a lovestruck teenager. You would think she had never saw him before in her life, the way she kept looking at him now. But then, maybe she hadn't, because she kept seeing knew things she should have noticed before. Like the way he went out of his own way to make everyone else comfortable before he was, how he worked to keep from injuring anyone's feelings, and how quick his mind was. He was comfortable to be around. It would never be obvious he was so wealthy, because he was so open with everyone. Yet, she didn't want to notice, because somehow, it seemed silly of her, childish.

She wanted to swim. That would be a nice distraction.

"I think our stomachs have settled enough," she voiced into the silence.

"Probably," Quatre replied, and tried not to think of how she would look slick with water, the sun glinting from every available drop.

Slipping her glasses from her face and depositing them on a nearby table, she rose at the same time as he did, her eyes glancing off the strong curves of his muscles.

Quatre noted the slim length of her waist and marveled at the fact that he could probably nearly span it with one hand.

Taking a steadying breath, Cathrine made it to the pool first, climbing slowly down the later so she could savor the thrill of having the water rise over her with each step. Quatre went for the diving board, executing a perfect dive, every line of his body in sync with the other. That didn't surprise her, but the jolt of her pulse as he jumped did.

"Oh, get over it," she muttered crossly. "You'd think he was the greatest thing since sliced bread."

Slipping under, she came up drenched, and swam a few laps, enjoying the way her limbs cut through the water. Quatre swam around as well, but seemed to be taking great pains to avoid her. Or maybe she was just being overly sensitive. He couldn't have caught her looking at him. That was what the glasses were for.

The water was cool, and it felt very good. It was Quatre's hope that, that fact would help curb his desire. If he turned his thoughts to matters of business, ran dull figures through his head, it would probably help further. So that was what he did. Counted to himself as he swam laps, trying his best not to be near Cathrine. If she brushed against him while they swam, he was going to lose all that he had gained.

He couldn't help the smile. He was not acting at all like the level-headed businessman he had come to be known as.

Deciding she would give the diving board a try, Cathrine left the pool and crossed the cement, trying not to feel conspicuous. She seriously doubted Quatre was even watching her.

She was wrong.

Though he was trying desperately not to.

Grasping the railing on either side, she began to climb the stairs, her eyes not on what she was doing, but rather, on what Quatre was doing. Her preoccupation caused her to miss a step, and when she pressed down, she fell. Her ankle bent beneath her, and the flare of pain had her unable to suppress a cry. [1]

"I'm so stupid..." she managed on a gasp.

She had never seen him move so fast.

One moment he was in the pool, the next he was racing across the cement and kneeling down beside her.

His concerned face was very close to hers, and she could feel the warmth from his body.

"Are you all right?"

How could he sound so calm?

"I think I hurt my ankle," she replied, wincing.

He reached out, took her leg gently in his hands, and stretched it out so that her foot fell in his lap. Rather than the pain, all she could think about was how his hands felt on her skin.

It made her angry.

She tried to jerk back, but Quatre held firmly to her leg just behind her knee, his fingers scorching there.

"Cathrine, please hold still. You need-"

"Don't tell me what I need, Quatre Winner!" She snapped, humiliated, in pain, and almost in tears.

If she hadn't been so stupid and watching him rather than where she was going, this never would have happened.

His tone was gentle. "Cathrine. Let me look."

There was no doubt she had a sprained ankle, at least. It was swelling already. He probed it gently, hearing her sharp intake of air as he pressed in a particularly tender spot.

"Did you feel anything snap?"

She worked hard to hold onto the wetness in her eyes.

Quatre wanted to reach out and draw his finger beneath her them, to find some way to soothe her ache, but he didn't.

"No..."

He nodded. "You most likely sprained your ankle. We'll need to get some ice on it, and elevate it. If the swelling doesn't go down significantly by tomorrow, I'll take you to the doctor."

"No, you don't have to do that. I'll just get up and-"

"You won't." His tone was firm this time, and before she could protest, he slid one arm around her waist, one arm beneath her knees, and swept her up against his chest.

"I don't need to be carried," she protested irritably.

"What you need, is to be quiet," he informed her, his tone telling her he expected her to listen to him without argument.

She was so startled by the show of force from him, that she didn't fight him. It felt nice to be carried, too nice. She wanted to relax against him, rest her head on his shoulder, but she didn't dare. Instead, she held herself stiffly, uncomfortably and hoped he would get her in the house and put her down soon.

"Relax," he murmured, and she could feel the vibration of his voice through his chest.

An invitation. She couldn't fight that. So she relaxed, feeling ridiculously safe and comforted. She didn't need anyone to protect her. She did well fending for herself. Not even Trowa dared tell her what to do when it came to her own safety. Unless, that was, he wanted an earful.

When they entered the house, and he set her down on the couch, placing two small pillows beneath her feet, she felt oddly chilled and disappointed.

In the kitchen, Quatre opened the freezer and complemented sticking his head in it. Carrying her, just that short distance from the pool to the house had been sheer torture. No one's skin should feel that soft, and when she had finally relaxed against him, he hadn't wanted to let go. Right now, however, he had to put his own feelings aside and take care of her. While she held ice on her ankle, he would hunt down an ace bandage and wrap it up to help reduce the swelling. Then, he was going to have to find some way to entertain them both, because she was going to be housebound, and sitting down, for the rest of the day.

The ice was held in a plastic bag, wrapped in a thin towel to keep it from being too cold. He set it on her ankle, and she took it from him, her eyes still wet with lingering, unshed tears. This time, he couldn't help himself, and he reached out to pass his thumb beneath first one, and then the other. Startled, Cathrine stared at him, still feeling his touch, though his fingers were no longer on her skin.

"I'll carry you upstairs, so you can change. It's not good for you to sit around in this house with a wet bathing suit."

She was cold. But whether it was more from the air conditioning, or the space now between them, she wasn't sure.

[1] Aren't I mean? If you think this isn't possible, or just cliche, let me assure you it's neither! I was coming down the stairs, talking to my dad who was at the bottom, and not watching where I was going. I missed a step and fell on my ankle. Oooh, it sucked. So, I figured if I could do it coming down, Cathrine could do it coming up. Besides, wouldn't you rather watch Quatre in swim trunks than the stairs you're climbing up? ^_~