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

Trowa slept lightly. It was an ingrained habit, learned from nights of sleeping on the hard ground, listening for the sound of enemy fire. When he woke in the night, his eyes swept the room out of knowledge and habit. The door knob was turning, slowly, nearly silently. It wasn't Cathrine. She would have knocked. It wasn't Quatre. He wouldn't have come to Trowa's room at this hour. So he slid the covers aside, rolled off the bed, hitting the floor with a soft thud, and tucked himself beneath the mattress just as the door opened and a shadowed form moved in.

He waited. The time to act wouldn't be until the intruder neared the bed. If the person wasn't wearing any night vision devices, he or she would also have to adjust to the darkness of the room. It would bring them that much closer before they realized the bed was empty. For now, he had the advantage, and he intended to keep it at all costs. Patience was one of his strong suits, only because it had become necessity. It was interesting what you could become when you were forced.

There had never been a time where Trowa was grateful for all that fighting had taught him. Not even when the skills spared his life. But now, he knew, without them, he would be dead, and so would everyone in the house. If he didn't move quickly, they might still be.

Cathrine was strong, but she was no fighter. He doubted Quatre had ever needed to develop the caution he had, to keep him sleeping so lightly, even now. His only hope-- and hope was such a frail thing-- was that something would protect them. He hadn't come this far, wanting to die so many times, only to lose his life when he wanted to live. Nor, the lives of the ones he cared about.

Back flat against the floor, face pressed into the soft carpet, he watched. Ankles and feet came into his line of vision, too far for him to grab yet. He willed them closer, but they paused, hesitating and he could almost see the dawning realization etched on the faceless intruder.

There was the click of a gun sliding out of action, and an explosive curse.

He had been found out. It was now, or it was never at all. He was just going to have to rely on his reflexes and the marginal lead he had. If he didn't, the alternative was unthinkable. He had never been cowardly, because he had never given a damn one way or the other. This time he cared, and it was amazing how much stronger that made him. He had always thought it would weaken him, having ties he had never been allowed before. It had taken Cathrine's and Quatre's persistent caring to get him to see otherwise. He had wanted to, but life had let him down one time too many, until it felt as if he was dead inside. He almost believed it. Almost.

Gathering in his breath, he shifted and shot out from under the bed, grasping the ankle of the person and shoving forward with all his strength. The momentum sent the person sprawling, gun flying from his hand to slide across the carpet. He hit his back hard, and Trowa heard the reflexive gasp before his hand lashed out and struck the man in the throat. Adam's apple. Definitely a man. His assumption there had been correct. There was no time for more contemplation, however, because he did not intend to lose the edge he had gained.

* * * *

Examining her face in the mirror, Cathrine grimaced. She looked tired. She felt tired. So why was it she couldn't sleep? Any sane person would have been long past drowsing and into the world of dreams at nearly three in the morning. Of course, given the events of yesterday, she wasn't entirely certain she could qualify for sanity any longer. Things were changing in her life, going places she had never expected. It probably required more than a cursory thought. Only, she did think that it could have waited until a reasonable hour.

"Silly," she chastised herself.

She did sound like a young teenager discovering for the first time that boys were good for something other than teasing and running from. Her experience with relationships wasn't exactly extensive, but she could never remember feeling this way. It stuck with her, in a good way. Or maybe it was a bad way. If he was going to keep her up at night, or steal her concentration during the day, he just might be hazardous to her health. Not, that she had ever went out of her way to do what was good for her. She did things her way.

Turning the faucet on, she ran it until it was mild. Cupping it in her hands, she splashed it on her face and then reached for the nearby towel. Blotting at the wetness, she almost wished she had something to help her sleep. Since her ankle was bothering her again, she didn't suppose she could blame all of this on Quatre. It was, after all, her own fault she fell off the ladder. It was his fault, however, that he looked as nice as he did in a pair of swimming trunks. It could also be his fault she was attracted to him, if she wanted to be stubborn.

"What I want," she muttered, "is to go to bed. These thoughts can keep for a few more hours."

The last thing she wanted was to sound lovesick. She was on uneven footing at the moment, and while she didn't intend to play games, she also didn't plan to lay everything out at Quatre's feet and tell him to take. She had pride, and she had her own life. The circus had been a part of her for as long as she could remember. She didn't need him to support her, or provide anything for her. That, she could do herself. What he could give her, was something on an emotional level that was missing. That was all. She sounded trite, saying it that way, but it had to be. Until she could trust that he would fall as deeply as she could, then she would always hold a piece of herself back.

She wasn't ready for more loss.

Reaching for the knob, she turned it slowly, stepped out of the bathroom, and very nearly into the barrel of a gun.

Breathing itself seemed to cease, even as if felt like her heart had lodged itself painfully in her throat. There was only the split second to think of Trowa and Quatre, to feel the sharp slice of worry, before the gun fired. She fell on her injured ankle, felt pain, and hit the carpet hard enough to feel the burn.

* * * *

Quatre jerked upward as pain flooded through him.

He moved enough that the bullet missed its mark, tore into his pillow, and down into the mattress, embedding itself into the wood of the floor, and showering him with feathers.

Working on reflex alone, he grasped the edge of his blanket and tossed it into the face of his assailant. As the person struggled, he scrambled off the edged of the bed and fell onto his knees. With a snarl that was decidedly male, the man threw aside the blanket and brought his gun up to bear. Quatre was ahead of him, however, and on him quickly, burying his fist into the man's unresisting stomach.

It had been some time since he had been forced to fight. It was interesting what came back to you when your life was threatened.

He rose in one fluid move and launched himself at the darkly clothed man, grappling for the gun as they hit the mattress and rolled off the edge onto the floor below. He hit first, Quatre landing on him, tucking his knees under at the last moment so that he drove both into his attacker's chest. The man grunted harshly, his grip on the gun surprisingly still tight. Quatre dug his own fingers in, in response, ignoring the sting as they struggled, and he knocked his head against a piece of furniture. What piece, eluded him at the moment, but he seriously doubted it mattered.

The gun exploded suddenly, and he winced at the sound of breaking glass. The state of his house, however, was mild in comparison to his worry over the others. This assassin was for him, of that there was no doubt, but by being here, Cathrine and Trowa were now in danger. Rashid was gone, back to the small desert town again, which was a relief and a burden at the same time. His help would have been appreciated, but had he stayed, he would have become a target as well. After all the times Rashid had preserved Quatre's life at the risk of his own, he didn't think he could have lived with losing him now.

Quatre didn't want to kill him. If there was any way to resolve it without one of them dying, he would find it. But if there wasn't, he would have to deal with the results of that outcome.

They smacked against the bed, and the man he fought reared back and then forward, their foreheads colliding. Quatre's vision swam, and he struggled to hold on despite the lack of focus. But even as his grip slipped, he realized they were at a standstill. They were only going to roll around the room until they had both worn themselves out, without either of them ever getting a hold of the gun. There had to be some other way, even if it meant he himself got shot in the process. Whatever it took, it was better than dying, or letting his friends die.

Taking the risk, he let one hand drop from the gun. In the same movement, he reached out, curled his hand around the man's throat, and squeezed. It had the desired effect. The intruder let go with one hand of his own to tear at Quatre's fingers in an almost desperate manner. Despite the pain the tearing brought, he held on. The rolled again, nearly sending him off the man. If it weren't for the firm hold he had on his throat and wrist, the attempt would have worked. As it was, it only brought him closer to his dresser. Sliding his hand further down the man's arm, he used that advantage, slamming his wrist into the hard wood.

The man held fast. He hit again, and again until there was an audible snap.

With a strangled cry of pain, the intruder released his hold on the gun.

Quatre let go of his fist and neck in response, jerked away, and dove for the weapon.

* * * *

Ducking a punch, Trowa skirted around his opponent and kicked the gun further out of reach. Neither of them would be needing that. The man had obviously come to take his life, and Trowa intended he get a fight considerably more fair than that.

Eyes narrowed to concentrated slits, he slipped low and darted straight for him in a move that was meant to look reckless. As he expected, the man considered this an advantage and pulled back, lashing out with his foot. Trowa watched it come, made no effort to move aside, and only when the blow was nearly on him, did he twist, air grazing his skin, as he drove his knuckles into the unprotected flesh just on the inside of the man's thigh.

There was a nerve there. The blow pinched it, and the intruder stumbled away, desperately trying to regain feeling in his uncooperative limb.

Trowa wasn't going to wait. Fairness hadn't entered this fight. Not when the man had more than intended to kill him while he slept. Him, and everyone else in the house, if they weren't already fending off their own attackers. Anger was a cold knot inside of him, sliding over him like second skin. He knew what it was to kill. He had spent nearly his entire life taking others' one way or another. If killing this man meant Quatre and Cathrine could live, then he would do it. And feel nothing. For now.

Lips compressed in a thin line, he stalked him, hooking his foot around the man's lame one to send him tumbling to the carpet. When the man fell, he drove down on him with his knee, but missed as his assailant rolled away. Trowa dove after him. The man struck out wildly, a blow glancing across his cheekbone. Pain exploded beneath his eye, leaving a stinging fury in its wake. He absorbed it, and kept on, grasping anything that he could close his fingers around, and squeezing.

"You son of a-" the stranger spat.

Trowa sought lower, and squeezed harder, looking to crush.

Rendered immobile, the man gasped for breath around the pain, his hands clawing at Trowa's wrist as Trowa continued to tighten his hold. There was certainly nothing fair in this move, but then, when you were fighting to live, rules became a hindrance, not a necessity. It wasn't as if this man was an innocent. He thought little of their lives, and so Trowa would think even less of his.

"Let go!"

Face impassive, Trowa watched him struggle, set aside the burn having strips of his skin taken out of his wrists caused him. There was something to be said for being able to withdraw into yourself, to become numb. He hadn't expected to need that ability again. It had been a long time since he fought, either in or out of his Gundam. But certain things never left you. This skill was apparently one he was going to have to live with for the rest of his life. It wasn't a comforting thought. But then, reality rarely was.

"Losing your calm is dangerous," he informed him flatly, releasing his hold only to brace himself on his hands, vault over the man's head, and come to rest behind him.

Trowa laced his arms around the stranger's neck.

"Because things rarely work out as you expect," he added, and wrenched, hearing and feeling the snap.

The body twitched, struggled, and then fell still.

* * * *

Using only instinct, scrambling back, Cathrine pulled herself into the bathroom and slammed the door. The gun fired again, splintering wood, and she looked around frantically. She had to think quickly, or she was going to be dead.

Her ankle throbbed, stole her attention, competing with the fear that strangled her reason and tried to rob her of thought. Whatever happened, she couldn't panic. There had to be something in this bathroom she could get a hold of and make into a weapon. Almost anything would work. Especially something she could get a hold of and throw. She was good at throwing things. She had an eye for it, a skill that kept her from missing except rarely. If anything was going to save her now, it had to be of her own device. There was no way in hell she was going to be rescued. Not if she had anything so say about it.

Anger was a fire in her blood now. As the intruder again fired, tried to take the lock from the door, she forced herself to her feet with the aid of the counter and shoved things aside, looking for something to use. Lipstick, make-up, shampoo, all hit the ground, bouncing and skidding across the tiles. They weren't going to help her now. Unless... She turned, looking at the bottles with renewed interest. She could throw them at him to catch him off guard. If all else failed, she would have no other choice.

The wood shattered more as the door bucked.

Time had ran out for her.

Nerves leaping, she dumped the contents of a bag on the counter, watched barrettes and hair ties slide away from her. Then she found what she wanted. Two slim hair pins in the shape of plastic chopsticks. They wouldn't do to throw because they were too light, but they would work to inflict pain if he got too close. For now, she would have to rely on the heavier object to hopefully knock the gun from his hands. Sliding the pins to one hand, she let herself fall, knowing she couldn't lower herself quickly enough if it required grace.

As her hand closed around a shampoo bottle, the door flung open.

He came inside, filled the doorway. Brows slamming together, she reared back and hurled the bottle at him with every ounce of strength she possessed. It struck him dead center in his forehead.

Letting loose a startled curse, he took one hand from his gun to press against the newly acquired wound.

Cathrine grabbed a jar of creme and threw that too. A can of hairspray, a bottle of conditioner, a glass. They all became her weapons, and she rained them down on him until she ran out. Breathing heavily, she shook her hair from her face and was dismayed to see he still held on to the gun. But he wasn't watching her at the moment. His free arm was shielding his face from further harm.

It was probably going to hurt, but she had no choice left.

Gathering up what was left of her energy, she pushed from the floor and leapt at him, driving them both into the hard tile. He hit first, the back of his head striking the wooden frame of the doorway. Her hip struck the counter and she suppressed the urge to cry out. Worse things were going to happen to her than that if she didn't concentrate. Her ploy had given her the advantage, and she had to hold on to it at nearly any cost.

She produced one pin, pulled back, and slammed it down into him as he bucked and tried to throw her from him. As he shifted, it missed its mark and embedded itself deep into his chest just below the collar bone. He screamed in silent agony, and struck out blindly, catching her across the temple with the gun.

A burst of light and then dark exploded behind her eyes. She gasped, unable to fight back when he shoved her away from him.

He movements felt slow, sluggish, as the cold of the tile pressed into her back. Her limbs wouldn't cooperate with her. Part of her railed against that, demanded she try to escape, fight back, anything to keep from dying. The last pin was in her hand, she could feel it trying to slip past the dampness of her palm. If she could just twist a bit and get it out in front of her while he fell on her...

Her vision wavered, returned, and she slid her other hand around the pin.

"Shouldn't have fought me," he snarled, and reached for her.

He was going to strangle her. He was angry enough that he had lost control of the situation. That had to be it.

"I'm not the docile type," she returned, hating how weak her voice sounded.

He grinned at her. "Too bad."

"For you!" She snapped, and jerked up.

The pin went clean through his neck, past his throat, and as his shocked eyes locked with hers, his blood ran warm down her wrists and splattered hot across her skin.

As she could do nothing but watch wearily, he struggled away and ripped it from his flesh. Choking and gasping, he crawled on all fours to the carpet, where he finally collapsed. She heard him wheezing, closed her eyes against the image of what she had done, and waited.

* * * *

His broken wrist dangling limply at his side, the intruder spun around and caught Quatre in the face. Stumbling back, Quatre drew his sleeve beneath his throbbing nose and watched it come up stained with blood. He wasn't an extremely talented hand to hand fighter. This man obviously was a well trained assassin sent here to kill him for some reason or another. Whether it was political, or business related, hardly mattered. But he thought he knew why. He would not, however, let it force him to live in fear or change his mind. Not now, and not ever.

Moving quickly, he treated each attack as if it were the thrust of a fencing foil. Since the man was more skilled than he was, the only way to get through this was to form some sort of strategy, not simply rush in blindly and try to fend the best he could. For every dodge, he pulled the slightest bit closer, and it would only be a matter of time before he got in close enough to strike himself. When he did, he knew it was going to have to be a good one, or this would have been for nothing other than keeping himself from getting further injuries.

The opening came, and he took it.

Dropping low, he hooked his shoulder into the stranger's chest and pushed, ramming him backward and into the wall. Feeling the snap of the impact through the other man, Quatre pulled back and hit him twice in the face with quick, clean jabs. His knuckles stung, and were no doubt going to be bruised. But he would have to worry about that later, or he wasn't going to _have_ a later. With that in mind, he swung again. His opponent blocked this one, however, and shoved at him. Quatre struggled to stay upright, and was unprotected enough that the stranger hit him hard in the stomach.

Feeling the air leave him in one great rush, he fought to breath as he was tackled to the carpet. They rolled again, but he couldn't offer up enough of a struggle, because the lack of breath left him nearly immobile. Panic clawed at him. He held it at bay through sheer will alone. It was crowding in again, however, as his attacker grasped his neck and began to beat his head into the floor. His vision blanked twice, before he gasped and coughed deeply, his lungs finally filling with the needed air, only to have it be cut off again.

He had to get this man off of him.

His own hands were free, so rather than tear at the ones around his neck, he dug his fingers into the man's clothing at his shoulders, wedged his knee between them for leverage, and heaved upward. The stranger wouldn't budge.

Quatre wasn't going to quit. If he quit, then he died, and so did everyone else in the house. That wasn't an option. So he tried to focus, dug his fingers in harder, and kept at it. With each thrust, he felt the intruder's hold loosen. It was a slim hope for him that the next would dislodge the man completely, but one he had to hold on to. It was all he had left.

Something else needed to give.

Gritting his teeth, feeling his own hold slipping from lack of oxygen, Quatre lunged up one last time, and came close enough to slam his forehead into his assailant's. That was what he needed. He heaved again, and the man flew off him, sliding across the carpet, finally coming to rest. It wasn't until Quatre rose on his elbows, and tried to struggle to his feet, that he realized the gun was inches from the intruder's fingers.

The man realized it too. He lunged for it. Quatre lunged for him. They collided in a tangle of limbs, eliciting a hiss of pain from his attacker as Quatre fell full on his injured wrist. As cruel as it was, Quatre used that for his advantage and bore down harder. As they fought, they both reached for the gun, slapping, kicking, and hitting each other away in any manner they could to keep the other from getting to it first. The intruder won the battle. His fingers closed around the gun, and brought it up to bear.

Despite being pressed into the carpet, Quatre had one advantage. He had the use of both his hands. Using thatleverage, he grabbed on to the gun too, struggling to push it away from him. Face livid, sweat sliding down his face, the intruder pressed down harder. Staring into the eyes of a stranger, Quatre turned the gun, shoved it into his chest, and fired. His eyes widened, his mouth a small circle of disbelief, before his hand went limp, and he rolled away. Breathing heavily, Quatre let him go, aware of the warmth of blood staining his night clothes, aware of the fact that a man lay dying beside him, and it was his doing.

There was nothing to be done about it now.

There had been no other choice.

He struggled to his feet, made certain the man was dead, and then stumbled down the hall. The walls blurred by, unrecognizable as everything went out of focus but where he was going.

He made it first to Trowa's room, and found it empty save for an inert body lying twisted on the floor. Heart beating hard, he continued the rest of the way to Cathrine's room. He found them both, Trowa helping Cathrine to her feet, and Cathrine looking pale and weary. Relief was sharp and fierce, enough to force him to grasp on to the nearby dresser for support.

When he made it over to them, and Cathrine fell into his arms, holding him tightly, Trowa made no objections. He simply stepped calmly around them both and reached for the phone. But Quatre watched the way his hand shook as he dialed. He was rattled.

Pressing his cheek to Cathrine's hair, feeling the adrenaline edge wear away, and the aftermath settle in, he could only clutch her silently and thank Allah that they were all right.