This chapter is based off the song "Fascination" by Édith Piaf. Once again, I don't own GW or Édith Piaf's songs. And once again, I encourage you all to read and review - because that would make me very happy and make me want to write more :)

Special thanks to Emily and Alyssa for awesome stuff. I left the only French thing in this chapter a bit of a mystery, just because I think its funny within the context of Trowa not speaking any French, but it means "I'm Quatre Reberba Winner and if I want to smoke, I'll smoke."

Enjoy.

I will never understand why Quatre enjoys vacationing in France. In the middle of winter of all times.

Of course, I know why he wants to. But knowing and understanding are two very different things.

It was about three years ago when I made the transition of being more to Quatre then just a friend - that is, I became his Preventer appointed bodyguard. Our relationship however, has yet to change in the slightest, aside from the fact that I stand outside his office at Winner Enterprise, follow him to PR meetings on various colonies, stand behind him awkwardly during press conferences -

Make obscenely absurd trips to Paris with him in the dead of winter.

In his defense, he often checks with me whenever her plans on going somewhere. He'll politely say "I have to be at [event] in [place] for [number] days. Are you available to come? I understand if you're busy". I'm sure somewhere in his genius brain he realizes that I'll never be to busy to follow him anywhere, if he asked me to come with him to the ends of the earth I would probably agree to it with a smile. The ends of the earth hopefully not located in France. If they were Quatre would somehow 'forget' to inquire if I would be busy at the given time or if I would even like to attend. Because somehow, when it comes down to France, how I feel becomes an over looked question. And of course, I know why.

I just don't understand.

Although I'm about ninty-seven-point-thirty-three percent sure I choose not to understand.

Its hard to miss though, when he looks into the face of every curly haired brunette on the streets of Paris. Or when he insists on taking shortcuts that prove to be entirely too long through the more seedy areas of the city. Or when he takes twice as long to look through the windows of every bar with a stage -

Or when he's making obscenely absurd trips to Paris in the dead of winter.

He never mentions it, but I know why. I know he wants to find that girl.

And at this point, I use the term 'girl' rather loosely. Its been almost five years to the day; I'll turn twenty-seven this year, Wufei and Sally have two little girls, Duo confessed his love for Heero, a total of four assassination attempts on Relena have failed, and Quatre and I have been friends for eleven years.

Just friends.

But for how well I know him, I don't understand how he's become so obsessed with her - she who evades him so well despite his ruthless five year search, she who makes the most articulate and well mannered man loose his silver tongue, she who has become his longest lasting obsession.

Well, that I know of at least. Maybe it took a little longer to figure me out then I assume. Maybe those days in Corsica still slip in him memory from time to time.

But Corsica is not romance; it is not sidewalks by la Tour Eiffel or kisses along the Seine. Those memories are of two awkward and war-torn teenagers, stuck in a kitchen with a broken coffee maker.

Coffee, is what snaps me out of the daze I've been in all day. A small espresso in a delicate white cup which is settled in front of me by a waiter. Across from that, a slightly larger cup with a personalized kettle of tea. Earl Grey is poured in. The spoon on the table is left alone. No sugar is added. Two pale fingers coil around the handle. They help the cup on a journey up to perfectly parted lips.

Oh, hello Quatre. Have I been mentally-checked-out all day?

"Mmhmmm," I hadn't noticed myself speaking. Or maybe he just knew what I was thinking. He can do that, I'm sure. "Alright?"

I nod.

"Something on your mind?"

My eyes lower to the espresso in front of me.

"I just figured you'd like an espresso. Would you prefer something else?"

I shake my head and take a swift drink to prove my point.

"Something on your mind?"

Corsica.

He nods, "What about it?"

We should go back.

"When?"

Soon.

He blows on his tea gently, the steam flies away from him. He sips, "After Paris. We'll stay at the old compound. Unless of course you mind?"

Of course I don't mind.

He smiles and lets tea cup meet saucer gently. He reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a pack of cigarettes which he sets on the table between the tea kettle and his black gloves. He puts a white stick in his mouth, lights a match.

The smoke comes from his nose, mixing in the air with the steam from his tea. It laps around his long piano fingers, his wrist. The next huff comes from his mouth, rising up between his eyes and twisting into his hair. A sip of tea, another puff. Tea. Puff. Tea. Puff.

I've been staring. I let my eyes fall to my espresso, reminding myself to not look back up at the smoke twirling in Quatre's hair or playing around his piano fingers. He takes off his black coat and hangs it on the chair-back. It's on top of his powder blue scarf. He bought me a matching one for Christmas.

I choke down the rest of my espresso. Quatre flicks his wrist and another one is brought in its place. They know who he is here, that's why he's the only one smoking in the building. I'm sure by now, anyways, Quatre's drank enough of their tea to own the place.

The couple seated behind him stand up to leave, waving hands in front of their faces to clear the smoke from their nostrils. They shoot us a typically French glare and the man sneers something in our direction, which I cannot understand. One side of Quatre's mouth shoots up in a grin and he turns his head.

"Je m'appelle Quatre Reberba Winner; et si je vuex fumer, je fume."

Quatre turns back to his tea; the frenchman silently arches his eyebrows and stomps to the door, pushing it open with such force that it knocks over a little blond child. The couple walks away, and the little boy whimpers. He's only about four or five, it seems. Rather on the slender side, he's got a hole in his grey pants and his black pea coat seems too large for him. The yellow scarf around his neck is so long it must have been dragging behind him, and his hands are covered with green mittens - which he is now rubbing on his rosy face, his runny eyes.

His mother comes up to him now, she bends down and wraps her arms around him. He holds on and she picks him up - scooting towards the window of the café and out of the way of passers-by. She coos him, running her hand along the fine blond hair that covers his head. A gentle smile is playing on her lips when she looks up.

Our eyes meet.

She knows who I am.

I know her, too.

I look down as nonchalantly as possible, not wanting to draw attention from Quatre. I stare at the espresso, watch the little bits of froth on the side bubble. I take a sugar cube, I hold it in the coffee and let it absorb the liquid. I pop it in my mouth slowly. When I look back up, I will take a moment to look at Quatre. I will watch his piano hands holding his tea cup, and his perfect lips touch the bud of his cigarette. I will see the way his hair sticks out just slightly in the back, and the way his blue eyes have the habit of focusing on the smoke thats been curling itself around us this whole time.

There is a one hundred percent chance, however, I will not be able to focus on Quatre.

She's staring at me when I look up. Her brown eyes slightly widened, pouted lips slightly parted. There are stray pieces of hair at the side of her face, which were too short to have pinned up with the rest of the thick curls. Her makeup is simple, she is wearing the same black pea coat she wore before, with the hem of a dark purple dress just barely peeking out from underneath. Her hands are covered by black gloves, and the little boy has buried his face in her white scarf. She may have gained some weight since then, but if she had it's only made her look more healthy - more beautiful.

Most women can't carry motherhood with such grace.

But most women, I notice as the little blond cherub turns his head to face me, don't give birth to the Winner heir.

He's got his mothers pouted lips, and large doe-like brown eyes. But the platinum blond hair and the rosy cheeks, the pale skin and the strong jaw, the Arabic nose and the thin figure...

Well, if he isn't the spitting image of Quatre.

He reaches out with a finger to touch the window glass, under the fading letters that spell out the name of the café. He draws two vertical lines for eyes, and a curve for a smile. He's not aware that the man three tables away, with his back turned to the door, is his father.

I'm sure Quatre isn't aware either. If he were he would have made sure the little boy never had a knee torn on his pants, or a coat that was too big for him. He would probably already speak Arabic fluently along with French, and started his lessons in English. He would be learning piano, soon the violin. He would not be raised as a spoiled child, he would get the things he needed - albeit very nice versions of those things; but toys would only be given for very good behavior. Quatre has often told me, if he ever had a son he would want him to grow up to be a gentleman. A lady, if he had a daughter. Always generous. If Quatre had known about this boy before now, he would be a good father.

If he had known, he would have done the right thing. He would have married her.

I can't help but wonder, as she shakes her head at me slowly and walks away - child in her arms, if she would have been okay with it. If she would have ever let him do the right thing.

I am tempted to grab Quatre, to shake him violently and chastise him for leaving his son without a father. I want to tell him to go after her for his own good. I want to yell at him for getting her pregnant. I want him to know how stupid he's been. I want to tell him to get over it, to forget her and move on. I want to let him know that there's so many more things to obsess over, things which maybe he hasn't exhausted like he thinks he's done.

I know I won't. I let her leave, I'll let him keep thinking like he does. I'll let him keep his fascination.