This story was originally a continuation but in a separate story to the previous chapter, but as said before, I decided to combine them because I wanted to write a lot more then originally intended. Enjoy.

I don't own anything except this story, which means Édith Piaf's songs aren't mine, neither is Gundam Wing.

The title "Rien de Rien" is taken from the Édith Piaf song of the same name. It literally translates as "nothing of nothing", but has the same general meaning as "absolutely nothing".

I'm probably going to follow this up with one last story, so please tell me if you'd like for me to do that - as appreciation is always, well, appreciated :)

I wouldn't be one to argue against Quatre Reberba Winner's intelligence. I'd never, however, go so far as to say he's smart.

That is to say, he's a genius.

Of course, this is something I've known since our first meeting. This is something I only took moments to discover.

We'd been holed up in Corsica together with his forty shadows breathing down our necks: the big one just waiting for me to slip up. Holed up we may have been in all the luxury that was my host, the coffee maker was broken. The horror.

So when Quatre had politely inquired if there was anything particular I desired, and I dropped the idea of black coffee - a problem arose. He humbly apologized and asked my to take a seat while he looked into the coffee maker situation, saying he would need a moment to fix the offending appliance. I expected, as one usually does with kitchen equipment, for him to smack it once or twice, unplug it and press a few buttons, before admitting defeat and beckoning one of his shadows to fetch a new one.

But instead, he took it apart.

And put it back together.

It worked.

Yet, even though he'd spent the better part of forty minutes disassembling and remastering a coffee pot, he stared at it like it was about to do a trick. And this is when he turned to me.

"I'm terribly sorry" he began, "but would you happen to know how to make coffee?"

I did of course know how to make coffee. But instead of answering, I wondered how a man who could build the machine didn't understand how to use it. But he continued.

"You see, I don't drink coffee."

Pause.

"So I don't know how to make it."

Pause.

"I apologize. The mechanics is just so much more fascinating then the application, and as I don't really have a taste for it - I just never bothered."

Another pause.

"I know, it is rather odd I'm sure, but if you'll provide me with instruction I'll be happy to make it for you. Or if you'd rather not I could always ask one of the Magunacs to do it."

Not wishing to A) lure his small army into the cramped room or B) speak, I got up and made the coffee myself.

And Quatre watched me.

But to my knowledge, he's yet to do it himself.

My second experience with Quatre's genius took place a year after the war. Although his stunning tactical maneuvers had left little to doubt in my mind about his higher brain functioning, the similarity to our first encounter was so striking that it became a pivotal moment in my Quatre comprehension. I'd come by from the Preventers office, dropping something by at the request of Wufei, finding him in the garage working on the engine of an old car. Somewhat uncharacteristic I'm sure, but I'd come to assume all kinds of random things from Quatre most people can't seem to imagine.

I suppose it co-insides with the fact that people are always underestimating him.

He was in the drivers seat, but killed the engine just as I'd walked in.

"Trowa! So good to see you," he said politely - though I'm sure he meant it, "how have you been?"

Good.

"Do you like the car? Its a classic you see - I've only just now finished restoring it. It has a custome made six cylinder engine, still runs of gasoline. They really don't make them like this anymore. Itsbeautiful really, don't you think?"

Yes it is beautiful. And how does the drive handle?

"Oh" he bit his lip, a momentary shyness falling over him that I hadn't seen for over a year, "I must confess Trowa, I don't know how to drive a car."

I didn't respond, instead rolling my eyes over the glistening hood.

"I know," he sighed. I was always so impressed how he knows when I say nothing, "I should know how to drive one, after piloting a mobile suit." He glanced over at the motorcycle in the corner, which I for one know he can drive, "It just doesn't interest me in the slightest. The mechanics happens to be far more interesting then anything else having to do with it. I'll learn someday, I'm sure."

I'm sure you will too, Quatre. But have you made any coffee recently?

Of course he hasn't.

"Well," he explained with a smile, "it's all about the interest isn't it?"

And he's right. The genius mind can only function on those things in which it discovers interest, on those things in which it can obsess. I often wonder if Quatre would wither away without his obsessions; if he didn't have his business, his music, the mysteries which keep his genius brain up for days spilled over the papers on his desk or the keys on his piano. I doubt Quatre would be able to get out of bed if those never-ending series of obsessions didn't poke at his cerebral cortex. Eventually, he'd probably just whither away.

He once confided in me his interest in his father's business. It is, not as one would assume of someone with Quatre's grander, an interest in money. Nor is it for the flourishing good it provides the community: the breathe of life it gives to the bustling economy of various colonies. He told me that, although these things are all benefits, he simple hasn't figured out what it was that held the attention of his father for so many years - an attention which eventually consumed him.

Although there is also an eighty-seven-point-three percent chance that this obsession has something to do with the massive amounts of Daddy issues he faces. I'm sure he's obsessed with those, too.

I'm half afraid that if he uncovers what it was his father was so driven by, his business will suddenly fail. I'm afraid that once he discovers the drive he's been lacking, he'll never move beyond the first paper on his desk. I know it's true because he still hasn't made coffee. His car is still in the garage.

But I've caught him playing piano, half asleep at the keys. He says there is a song stuck in his head. In the wafty tone that is Quatre-speak, this does not mean the la-di-da of the songs everyone else gets stuck with. I know, when I sit next to him on the bench, that this song has been the cause of restless nights and distractions during meetings.

Padam. Noun. The Francophone onomatopoeia for the sound a beating heart makes. The equivilent to the English thump-thump.

Padam. Proper noun. A song by Édith Piaf. A song in which she says her heartbeat is haunting her, reminding her.

Padam. Proper noun. A name a girl gave herself - or at least, a name they gave her.

I normally don't find myself jealous of Quatre's obsessions, then again his obsessions are usually things I can't talk to. Usually things I can't touch or see. And if they are, well, they usually can't touch, see, or talk back.

I just always hoped the obsession that kept Quatre guessing would be me.

Perhaps those days are over, those days in Corsica where my nameless persona provided interest. But now Quatre knows what I mean when I keep quiet. He picks up on the subtle clues even I am not aware of. Maybe, now that he gets me his obsession has finished itself. Maybe I'm the only cup of coffee he made. The coffee he made, but wouldn't drink.

Lord Byron once said - and I paraphrase of course - there is no such thing as a digression. I have a feeling I've just proved him wrong.

I am automatically interested because it hasn't been since - well, me - that Quatre has had an obsession with another human. But, what I want to know Quatre, is why is she so interesting?

His fingers stop on the keys, an audible breath escaping his lips and a glazed over look taking control of his eyes. His porcelain fingers close the keys cover. He sits, fingers throbbing against the cover as if he were trying to make his prints permanent.

"I...." his voice is barely a whisper, he clears his throat to begin again, "I believe I know her."

I nod my head. He's told be about the bar in France, and that I remember, but the girl - she I cannot recall.

"Not from the war," again, almost reading my mind, "I... I believe I know her from before that." He closes his eyes tightly, as if he fears the own words coming from his mouth.

"She - well - she was just younger the last time I saw her."

"She's from your childhood?!" An outburst for me - his eyes shoot open, shoulder seize up with another deep breathe, hand flying to his heart.

"Yes" he whispers again, "well, I think so at least. I just - I want to make sure."

I nod again. "And you won't ask her?'

"I don't believe I can. I don't think she remembers me, she was only a little girl."

I find myself wondering exactly how old she is, but he quickly corrects my thought, mentioning that he too - was a child - and he only remembers because she asked him a question.

"What did she ask?"

He smiles this time, his hand pressing harder against his heart while the other keeps its fingers firm on the keys cover.

"Quatre c'est un nombre. Pourquoi tes parents t'ont donné un nombre pour un nom?"

I don't speak French, Quatre

But I think I can figure out what she asked.

So I suggested that we go back. And although Quatre looked at me as if I was insane, he agreed. And although I always wonder if he'll see his obsessions through to the end, I can't stop myself from hoping that this time he won't even try. After all, he still doesn't make coffee.

I must had been distracted, because now when he's speaking next, he's asking: is something bothering me?

I respond with the only French words I can.

Whether or not it's a lie.

"Rien de rien, Quatre."