Title: What I Need
Part: Six
Pairings: 4+Cathrine
Warnings: Violence

Just the whisper of music intruded, wound its way around her in subtle warmth so that she almost thought it was a part of her dream. It was soft enough that she had to strain to make out the notes, as if they were lurking around the edges of her door, but couldn't find their way in. They pulled at her, filling the gap between sleep and wakefulness, and she gave in because she couldn't do anything else.

Helpless to stop the smile that found its way to her lips, she stretched slowly, mindful of her injury. All things considered, last night had ended on a very nice note. There was a flutter of nerves, and excitement in her stomach at the thought of it. Beginnings were thrilling for what new element they brought, but also frightening in their uncertainty. Not unlike walking the tight rope without a net.

She would be lying if she said she didn't like the thought of the challenge.

Experimentally, she pressed her fingers to her forehead, the tips coming into contact with the ugly bandage there. Besides a mild headache, and a small cut, it wasn't overly serious. For that, she knew she was lucky. Speed had been the only thing keeping it from bordering on a concussion to an injury that required stitches. While the bandage was certainly a cosmetic hindrance, she knew that it could have been worse. Keeping that in mind, she would take the bandage over the stitches any day.

Tossing the blankets aside, she rose slowly, sliding her legs over the edge of the bed and staring with some trepidation at the carpet. Mornings were never her most favorite time of the day. She could have easily pulled the covers back over her head and slept until noon. The thought was very tempting even now. But she could still hear the music. The rhythm had grown faster, and the way it reached out, reminded her of joy so exquisite, you could barely contain it. It was difficult to ignore something like that.

She didn't intend to. It was only a matter of getting up first.

Flexing her foot slightly, she noticed the swelling was down some and the ache was less. If she was careful, she would be able to balance on the ball of her foot while she walked.

Just the thought of remaining stationary all day threw her off. She was used to moving constantly, and whenever she wanted. Half of her morning was often spent in the practice tent, warming up for the performance later in the day. Sometimes, Trowa would join here there, and they would work together in a companionable silence that said more than a thousand words ever could. Those were her most favorite days.

Since she showered the night before because of all the sand, she only dressed as quickly as she could and wet her hair down some to tame the waves. It was warm enough in here, that she simply pulled on a summer dress to keep from having to shove her foot through pants, and did not bother with shoes. Splashing warm water on her face, she gently dried it with a towel and then, out of habit, made her bed and straightened up the room before she was finally content enough to leave.

Moving carefully down the hall, still annoyed with herself for injuring her ankle, she followed the trail of music, finding it led her down the hall and into a room she hadn't visited. Pausing in the doorway, she wasn't certain which surprised her more. The fact that it wasn't a radio, or the fact that Trowa held a flute to his lips, and Quatre a violin just beneath his chin. She hadn't known either of them played. Simply one of the many things about Trowa he had yet to divulge. It annoyed her, but listening to them play, she found it was hard to remain so.

They weren't aware that she was watching them.

Their eyes were closed, and the expressions on their faces was something so close to peace that it was hard not to be moved even the slightest bit. It wasn't often Trowa allowed himself to look so at ease. Not even when he performed. It was almost as if he were simply putting on another mask, while here, he let it all fall away, if just for a short time. It almost made her feel guilty to watch them. And perhaps it bothered her too, because he found it easier to do that with Quatre than with her.

Quatre was unguarded. Of all of the pilots she had met, he was the most open of them all, yet, looking at him now, she understood that even he had his roles that he played. To some extent, they all did. Except for her. She had always hated that she let her every emotion show on her face for others to read. Or maybe not. Maybe not as much as she used to. Not after the difficult time she spent trying to read Trowa. She wished more than once that he would just come out and say what he thought, or let his face reflect what he was feeling.

The piece tapered away, and she blinked, realizing she had been so lost in it and her thoughts, she hadn't been paying attention.

Two pairs of eyes focused on her, and she was helpless to do anything in return but offer them a bright smile because she couldn't explain the sudden warmth that infused through her, or the way she wanted to preserve this moment and keep it for always. It sounded ridiculously sentimental, but there it was.

"Good morning," Quatre greeted first, setting his violin aside.

"Cathy." Trowa nodded.

"Good morning. It seems like the storm passed." Said, to show them she wasn't even remotely frightened when it came to talking about last night. She did what she felt she needed to do, and she wasn't going to skirt around the issue. Regrets aside, she thought she might do it again. One apology was enough.

But all Quatre said was, "Yes, and I'm glad. They usually don't last longer than a day or night normally, though."

Trowa offered no commentary, only walked over to a case holding other instruments and placed the flute within it.

Leaning comfortably against the door frame to take the weight off her foot, she said with feigned nonchalance, "I was thinking, to make up for last night, I'd cook us all breakfast."

"Ah..." Quatre looked pained, as he were struggling to be diplomatic. "That won't be necessary."

"What, don't you like your eggs well done?" She queried, expression innocent.

Trowa said nothing, which was just as well, as Cathrine would have felt the need to kick him.

"No, it's not that. I was actually thinking of making us omelettes."

She laughed.

Quatre, near mesmerized by the sound of it, watched her face, wanting nothing more than to get up and touch her in some way, even if it was just casual. She looked beautiful, rested, and happy this morning.

He admitted to some reservations. He worried that she would regret last night and want to forget it. It was painfully childish of him, he knew, but it couldn't be helped. He couldn't remember when the last time was he wanted something to work as badly as this, and he wasn't quite certain what to do with that. Everything else was always easy to manage. But Cathrine was a person, and you didn't manage people.

"Quatre, you're being far too kind and you know it. You just don't want to eat my eggs."

"No, he just doesn't want to get harmed if he insults your cooking," Trowa interjected.

"Oh, butt out, Trowa," she returned, sticking her tongue out at him.

"I wasn't aware this conversation only had room for two," he replied mildly.

Cathrine was mortified to feel her face flushing. Trowa couldn't have seen them kiss.

Quatre, however, didn't look embarrassed. He only eyed Trowa thoughtfully and closed the case to his violin.

"That wasn't what I meant," Cathrine insisted, finding her voice.

Trowa merely eyed her expressionlessly and said, "I'll be in the kitchen, staring breakfast." That said, he left the room.

Rising, Quatre watched Cathrine as she looked after Trowa, noting the slim curve of her bare arm and how soft it looked against the dark fabric of her dress. He had known her for years, but he saw her in a way he hadn't before. It was something, the way feelings changed your view, clouded your judgment, and helped you forget how to think properly. Common sense told him that this was only infatuation, but his heart didn't seem to care.

She felt him before he reached her.

Turning, her shoulder settling against his arm, she looked up into his face, aware of him on more than one level. Would she always feel this quick thrill at his nearness, mingled with a sense of comfort and the freedom to express it? It didn't seem possible.

"How's your ankle?" He asked slowly.

"Fine, thanks," she said automatically, her eyes on his lips, thinking about how it felt to have them on hers.

"You're not having too much trouble moving around then?"

"No."

She seemed distracted, restless, he noted.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?"

Only in the sense that being this close stole her attention.

"No." This one said with a little more feeling, so that she turned to face him.

He reached out to touch her arm, and she let him draw her into the circle of his arms.

It felt sinfully wonderful to hold her like this.

"Do you think Trowa knew?" She asked quietly, unable to keep from resting her cheek against his chest, inhaling the scents that were him alone.

"No. I think he was just fishing, and you confirmed what he wanted," Quatre replied, amusement evident.

She grimaced. "He caught me off guard. He's good at that."

"People that know you well usually are," he agreed, fitting her completely against him.

"Hm," she said absently, unable and unwilling to form a decent thought. Each one she tried, shattered and scattered, filling her mind with only him and this.

"Cathy," he murmured, tipping her face up to meet his.

She felt like melting, as absurd as it sounded. Melting and spilling across the floor, surrounding him in the same way he was surrounding her. Dangerous. She had never noticed how dangerous Quatre could be. Maybe because he was always so disarming.

He watched her, pulled in the curve of her lips, the depths of her eyes, and the graceful arch of her neck where it smoothed into the lines of her face. And he moved there, touching his lips to her skin, drawing a warm path from her shoulder to her mouth, where his own hovered in anticipation.

Closer. She needed him to be just a little bit closer. Winding her arms around his neck, she settled into impatience and pulled him to her. Their lips met, soft, warm, and better than they had remembered. He asked, she gave, and they tumbled into one another.

A thousand years could have passed, the world could have fallen at their feet, or life could have passed them completely by and they never would have known or cared. What moved between them was all that was important, and it filled the moment with a gentle kind of peace, an odd sense of urgency, and the unmistakable flash of fire. It was an opening to whatever they wanted, a beginning to become whatever they made it. More together than they were apart.

And Trowa was almost, (almost) loathe to interrupt that.

"The omelettes are ready."

Cathrine jumped first, and would have jerked away from Quatre, had he not held her firmly. Quatre's focus narrowed on Trowa, half-annoyed, half-apologetic. The interruption was not appreciated, but the fact that he was kissing Trowa's sister in plain sight of anyone, _was_ poor manners.

Managing to twist slightly so that she could at least look at him, Cathrine, her face flaming, glared at Trowa to hide her embarrassment. "Haven't you ever heard of knocking?"

"The door was wide open," he pointed out.

"Still..." she floundered.

"I'm just letting you know breakfast is done," Trowa interrupted, changing the subject with seemingly little care and a great deal of ease.

Quatre cleared his throat. "Sorry. We appreciate you making them. We'll be along soon."

Trowa read the silent challenge, battled it for a few seconds, and then conceded, giving a nod before turning to leave. To Quatre, that meant he had Trowa's blessing. It was enough. And a relief as well.

Cathrine looked into his face. "Well, _now_ he knows for sure."

* * * *

"No."

Trowa stood, as still and unbending as an ancient tree whose roots were tucked securely beneath the earth and had been for ages. With his arms folded across his chest, and his expression firm, he only served to enhance the image.

Exasperated, Cathrine resisted the urge to throw her hands up. "Trowa, last that I checked, being my brother did not constitute being my mother also."

He was unrelenting. "Cathrine, you don't need to be out walking on your injured ankle all day."

"It won't be _all_ day! I just want to go out for a few hours. Rashid told me about a bazaar in town and I want to go buy something. A souvenir of the trip. A way to get out of the house. I don't care what you want to call it. I just want out!"

"No."

Now she fought to hold back a scream. Trowa was being unreasonable. His over-developed, autocratic sense of self was exasperating. This was her body they were talking about, after all. In comparison to some of the injuries she had forced herself to perform with, a twisted ankle was mild. Certainly, walking on it for a few hours shouldn't have posed any major problem.

It was time to enlist help. This was a last result only, and she didn't even want to do it at all, but she felt as if Trowa had backed her into a corner and given her no other alternative.

Slanting Quatre a look, she asked, "Do _you_ think I need to stay off me feet _all_ day? It's just for a few hours. I'm a grown woman, for heaven's sake."

Quatre shifted, let his hip fall against the kitchen counter. Cathrine wasn't getting the answer she wanted from Trowa, so now she was shifting focus to what she considered the weaker of the two. Weaker, only because he now had an emotional investment in what happened to her on a level he never had before. But that didn't mean she was going to get the answer she was looking for.

Keeping his smile in check, he answered, "You were only injured yesterday, Cathrine. It would probably be better to rest."

She did throw her hands up this time. "If you two don't let me out of here for a couple of hours I'm going to make life _very_ difficult for you."

Her eyes narrowed, hardened, and she fisted her hands on her hips to add weight to the threat. Both looked unperturbed, which only fanned her anger higher. She wanted out of this house. Vacations were meant to be relaxing, yes, but not _this_ relaxing. If she had to spend every day indoors for the rest of the week, she thought she might go mad. Or, at the very least, would make life very miserable for the two she was staying with.

"I'm going, if I have to walk there myself." Her tone was as inflexible as steel.

"Don't be silly," Trowa countered, picking cashews out of a nearby dish.

Silly? The insult was too much to let pass. "I'll show you silly..." And she picked up the nearest object (which happened to be a salt shaker) and hurled it at his head.

Her aim was perfect, but Trowa was fast. He caught it before it hit him, examined it as he had done the tortilla a few nights before, and then calmly set it aside.

He was enough to drive a person to the brink of insanity. And Quatre, who stood there watching it all with a half-smile on his face wasn't any help. If she thought she was going to get any aid in that quarter, she knew she could forget it. They had teamed up against her and things were looking hopeless.

"See, Quatre, this is what you have to look forward to. I hope your reflexes haven't declined over the years of peace," Trowa said, digging through the dish for more cashews.

"Trowa Barton, I'm going to murder you in your sleep," Cathrine spat, her tone promising all sorts of horrific tortures before the murder part came about.

She wasn't pleased to see that her threat made little impact. It probably had something to do with the fact she had given it before without actually ever having carried it out.

Grasping a handful of various nuts, Trowa excused himself. "Now would be a viable time for retreat."

She stared after him. "As if I'm an army..."

"I think your comparison holds more weight than you realize," Quatre informed her absently, amused that Trowa found so many reasons to leave them alone. His sister's wrath had never deterred him before. There was no reason it should now.

"Don't you start too," she chastised, hoisting herself onto a barstool and noting the paper again had Relena's picture on it. Below it, was a small head shot of Quatre. She was curious, but the entire paper was in Arabic.

He followed her eyes, sliding next to her.

"The Resource Satellite agreement. We've been working on it for going on two years now. It's looking like we might finally be making progress toward an actual signing," he added, sounding pleased.

"I hadn't heard about that."

"It's just been vague rumors until now. We've did our best to keep it out of the papers. Relena was satisfied enough with the progress to give a formal statement. There'll be a press conference when I get back."

She watched him, noticing how animated he seemed. Four years later, and he was still fighting for peace in any way he could. It was admirable. Especially because it had to be frustrating, how slowly it progressed. She knew she lacked the patience that two years for a simple agreement to be signed required. She didn't understand why people waited so long, what kept them deliberating when the benefits of it were plain enough to her. And she wasn't even involved in it.

"Relena's been amazing," he continued into the silence. "She's quelled their fears time and again, and made them believe what I couldn't. Some," he added with a wry half-smile, "aren't as willing to put their trust in an ex-Gundam pilot, no matter how much influence I have."

"Money speaks loudly though, doesn't it?" She asked, toying with the edges of the paper.

"Not when you're talking about change. People want peace, accept it, are even grateful for it. But when you start talking about merging things, changing their way of life, and cooperation, all they can see is their fear. Some of the colonial representatives still don't trust the delegates from Earth, and the delegates aren't ready to accept the colonies as a unified nation. It's not unlike placating squabbling children," he added, slanting her a smile.

"Mother Relena and father Quatre..."

He laughed. "It feels that way at times. Sometimes the only role we have in meetings is to head off arguments. But we know, if we can get them to agree, we can do away with pre-conceived notions left over from the war, and pool our resources. It's time the colonies and Earth stopped looking at themselves as separate entities and made another step toward unification. If they have to cooperate on a higher level, they'll be more likely to see each other as beneficial, not nuisances. The economy could stand a boost in both directions, and I can't see why either should struggle. Right now, the colonial deficit is simply staggering. With this agreement, the exchange of goods will cost less, serve more, and offer things that both the Earth and colonies generally have trouble getting. Whether they like it or not, the colonies came from Earth. They can't ignore that any longer."

"That sounds really intelligent," she answered lamely, feeling a bit out of her depth.

Recollecting his thoughts, pulling them away from business, he offered her an apologetic half-smile.

"Forgive me. I got carried away."

"No, it's a wonderful thing," she insisted, knowing that things like this were exactly what she had wanted in place of the wars.

"We've fought every step of the way," he admitted. "But it wasn't for nothing."

"It was never for nothing. Any time you fought," she returned adamantly, looking almost angry at the thought that someone would say otherwise.

If there was one thing he admired about her, it was her passion for anything. For her, it was everything or it wasn't worth her time. Not unlike Duo had been about fighting. Only, Cathrine's battles took place on a different field.

His fingers grazed hers. "Thank you. But this kind of fighting is what I prefer." Not bloodshed. Hopefully never again. He would do whatever he could to see that it didn't happen again in this lifetime.

"But, enough serious talk." He dismissed, when heavy silence filled the lull in conversation. "What do you say we challenge Trowa to a game of poker? We'll see who can get the most money out of him before bedtime."

Amused, Cathrine agreed. "You're on. But I think you should watch your bets. Trowa is no dummy."

Quatre smiled. Neither was he.