Disclaimer: Magneto, Quicksilver, and everybody else belong to Marvel Comics, 
and I'm not making any profit off of this except for the fact that I get to 
read something about Quicksilver, which has made my day, even though I had to 
write it myself to begin with. Some people blame their parents. I blame 
Marvel.

Continuity: This is set a couple of months after the events of Magneto Rex 
#1-3 and before those delightful scenes between Wanda and Pietro in Avengers 
#25. I *could* take this moment to rant about Marvel setting up such a great 
angsty family relationship and never really doing anything with it, but I 
would *never* stoop so far, now would I?


This Distance Between Us
by Larissa James

I invited him to dinner last night.

I suppose it should seem strange, inviting one's own son to dinner, as if he 
were no more than a common stranger, just another guest in my home. A worker. 
A privileged servant. Someone to be welcomed because duty demands it, 
entertained with empty words and mock interest in his affairs, and promptly 
forgotten as soon as the last drop of wine is drained. 

My own son.

A guest.

Perhaps what bothers me most is the fact that it *doesn't* feel strange at 
all. I keep looking at him, trying to grasp that which I can't seem to find 
naturally, as I should -- that glimmer of recognition, that gentle, yet 
insistent warm wave of familiarity that should stab through me each time I 
look into his eyes -- eyes that I should be able to see through, to *read* 
with the ease of long practice. I do not know the shape of his face, the 
touch of his hand, the sound of his footsteps -- the thousands of tiny things 
that forge the connections we depend on, that make knowing someone become 
*knowing* someone. The things that make a *father* into a *papa*.

I suppose I should have been glad that he bothered to show up at all. He 
wasn't comfortable, I could see that much. He didn't speak as we sat down on 
opposite sides of the table that should be occupied by a family of many. 
Neither did I. He did not look at me, but I could not seem to draw my eyes 
away from him, to persuade myself to refrain from trying to take in his every 
feature. I have never truly had a chance to study him, since I learned of our 
relationship, to try to recognize him as my own; he rarely remains in my 
presence for long, in a setting in which a long gaze would be even moderately 
appropriate, and I never seem to be able to catch him being still for long 
enough to observe him undetected, and so I found myself studying him 
carefully. I often hear people commenting, when faced with the two of us 
together, that he looks just like me, but I found myself disagreeing from the 
start. The features that we share -- the same arch of the eyebrow, the same 
intense blue (ah, my Magda used to say "icy fire" . . .) eyes, the same 
straight nose -- are apparent, but they are equally present in Wanda, and I 
cannot recall anyone ever bringing up a comparison between my daughter and 
myself. No one who compares ever saw their mother, of course. Actually, I 
decided that Wanda shares more with me than Pietro does, disregarding the 
obvious. There is a definite hint of his mother in the set of his mouth, 
especially in the pained half-smile I have seen him give on occasion, so full 
of hurt and yet touched with a spark of some secret fire . . . yes, the very 
essence of Magda!

I thought about telling him so, but he finally grew sufficiently perturbed by 
my staring, and looked up at me, eyes flashing warningly. I could feel the 
ire rise in me briefly at the silent defiance, but reason overrode the 
emotion: I *had* been rude to stare for so long when I knew that it would 
most likely unsettle him, and that he would almost certainly believe that I 
was attempting to make him uncomfortable on purpose. Eyes that so mirrored my 
own looked away again, and we sat again in awkward silence until the food was 
set before us, and we had something with which to distract ourselves. 

My son.

Two weeks ago, he disappeared without a trace. I should have been concerned, 
but I have, lately, had my own affairs to attend to . . . and after all, he 
wasn't precisely enjoying his time here in Genosha: I had seen him only days 
before, standing out on the cliffs overlooking Hammer Bay, looking out to 
sea. The restlessness is in his blood, you know. We have both hungered, he 
and I: I, for knowledge, for justice, and he for . . . I am not certain. 
Every time I discover one of those thin lines of kinship to grasp for, I miss 
-- I miss because I do not *know*. Sometimes, I can almost feel it: a shadow 
of familiarity, a skewed vision that somehow almost mirrors my own . . . but 
like the puzzle piece that doesn't quite fit, I can never seem to force it 
into place . . . and, like a wisp, it's gone. Never can I get the full 
picture.

I know I felt a certain amount of regret when I discovered that he hadn't 
returned that evening. It had felt good to have him at my side, working with 
me as father and son should to build this nation that has become my life, 
right that he *be* there, in the midst of the legacy that will be his to 
claim. I was foolish, I told myself, to believe that it would last forever -- 
he has a life, a family of his own, and he doesn't even *like* me . . . why, 
then, does he stay? Perhaps he fears me? No, Pietro does not fear me -- he 
never showed a hint of it when I first met him, and he was practically a boy, 
then; certainly, the grown man would have no reason to fear. Bravery was the 
one thing he had, even if Wanda seemed far brighter and more levelheaded . . 
. he tested me even when the others cowered pitifully against the wall, and I 
rewarded him with nothing but pain.

Disobedience, of course, was not to be tolerated.

His return after barely a week was unexpected, and, truth be told, something 
of a relief to me: I had begun to worry that one of those many little 
vigilante groups that are giving me such a hard time had taken him. The 
emerging politician in me (when did I become one of those?) had been almost 
glad to see him gone: after all, he has been no great asset from a 
functionalist standpoint. He hasn't the poise or intelligence for politics, 
nor the tactfulness necessary for dealing with touchy officials and citizens, 
and his mutant ability is rarely useful outside of battle . . . not to 
mention the fact that he is more determined to make things difficult for me 
than to do anything particularly helpful for anyone. I am getting more and 
more exasperated with having my every action read as a threat. Was it *I* who 
instilled such paranoia in him?

If I did, then God knows I am sorry.

"I am glad that you returned safely from your . . . trip," I told him after 
many long moments of silence, pouring myself another glass of wine. I had not 
meant to sound reproachful, but I was dismayed to realize that, to him, the 
unintended touch of sarcasm must have been all too evident.

He said nothing. I watched him carefully for some sign of acknowledgment, and 
was rewarded with only a dark frown that was obviously meant for me but ended 
up being directed at his plate. An explanation was too much to hope for, but 
I had allowed myself to wonder, nonetheless. I wondered if, perhaps, he had 
left to visit his family, and did not care to discuss them with me. I tried 
to imagine him at the dinner table with his wife and daughter, laughing and 
talking freely. I could not.

I haven't seen my granddaughter since she was barely knee-high, though I know 
the child must be at least four or five by now. Occasionally, I find myself 
thinking about her, wondering if she has grown to carry any of my features . 
. . or her grandmother's. My family is beautiful, I note with some pride, 
handsome of feature and sturdy and vigorous of body; no matter that that word 
-- family -- is a very much debatable term where we are concerned. Luna is no 
exception . . . and I find myself wishing to see her, so that, with this new 
generation, at least, I may *know*.

"And how is your wife?" I had asked him finally, as I finished up the last of 
my meal and set my fork carefully to the side.

"Well enough," he answered evenly, clearing his throat, his eyes intent on 
the table's centerpiece though his raised chin made it obvious that he was 
deliberately not looking at me. He set his fork aside, as well, and I could 
see his hands -- longer, more delicate in shape, but roughly calloused in the 
same places as my own, scarred . . .  

"My granddaughter is doing well? Learning her letters?"

The corner of his lip curled briefly at that -- he did not like the phrasing. 
I did not care. "My daughter," he corrected, "could write in three different 
languages when she was three years old."

Whether true or simply a paternal stretch of the truth, it did not matter -- 
I felt a stirring, a feeling that matched the unmistakable tone of pride in 
his voice, and recognized the brief, tingling wave of warmth inside to be the 
acknowledgment of connection. His daughter, my granddaughter . . . it 
mattered not that we could barely manage a conversation between the two of 
us; she was *smart,* and we were both proud to call the same child our own. 
There, too, was the fatherly identification that I could feel all too keenly 
-- it was easy to recognize the same feelings in my son that I once felt long 
ago as the father of a very similar little girl. He felt it, too, I think, 
for he looked up at me then, his eyes meeting mine briefly . . . and then he 
looked away again, and, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. 

The evening's meal suddenly sat heavily in my stomach, as heavily as the 
oppressive silence that seemed always to rule between us hovered above our 
heads, and I no longer felt very much like talking. The man across from me -- 
man, yes; the word almost drew me back into the warm feeling of pride again, 
for my son was a man, same as I, and a strong one -- was no more than a 
stranger. The same smoldering anger stared back at me whenever I caught his 
eye as when I looked in the mirror, the same crushing weight bent his back in 
ways that no one but a man bearing the same burden could see, the same blood 
roared in his veins as in my mine . . . but I knew then that I knew him no 
better than anyone else in the varied and dubious group that stands beneath 
my banner of purple and red. The things I know about him are superficial, 
things that two strangers seated together on a long train ride discuss to 
pass the time -- pleasantries of family and occupation, discussions of the 
weather that would pass even more easily between the two than they would 
between my own son and I. I know nothing of what matters. He knows even less 
of me, and does not care to learn more. Complete strangers, passing quietly 
in the night, except for those times when they both care to move in opposite 
directions on too narrow a path and clash violently over who will have his 
way. 
We have not even argued since his return. I miss it. When he is arguing 
against me, at least, I can hear his viewpoints, and gain a little more 
insight about what drives him. As it is, I am blind to him.

We sat in silence for a few moments more, two strangers with both so much and 
so little to say, unable to even exchange a few simple words without fighting 
over the words or allowing them to trail off into oblivion. I wondered what 
was keeping him there when he obviously wanted to leave, what was keeping 
*me* there when I had so much else to do . . . no, I had to admit to myself, 
I had a frustrating desire to retreat simply for retreating's sake, as well. 
Work had nothing to do with it.   

"I . . . really must be going," he said at last, getting to his feet, and I 
could see the effort it was taking him to force the words, and then I knew: 
neither of us had wanted to be the one to admit defeat first. His impatience 
had done him in.

I nodded to him, as one might acknowledge a passing acquaintance. That word 
rose up again -- guest -- and felt so leaden and thick on my mental tongue 
that I almost could not bear not to spit it out, almost could not restrain my 
sudden anger from betraying itself on my features. Hateful, alien word -- 
guest! 

He turned to go.

"Pietro . . ." I found myself saying softly, and he stopped, but did not turn 
around.

What would I tell him, if he were to listen? That I was sorry for the way 
things were between us, and wished that we could know one another as father 
and son should? That I was sure that things would have been different, had 
his mother not felt compelled to ensure that he and Wanda would be kept from 
me? That I *loved* him?

I do not love him.

I wish that I could. Sometimes, more than anything else, I wish that I could 
force myself, and force him, to feel what could come only with the knowledge 
and caring and understanding that I fear we will never have. It is a terrible 
thing, to *want* something so badly, because one can never suffer for lack of 
what one does not want. I should not ache so desperately for what I cannot 
have. 

"I . . . hope you have a pleasant evening," I told him, instead of saying 
what I wanted to say.

He paused for a moment more, his head cocked as if expecting more, and then 
he was gone.

I almost missed him.

I thought about Magda, and what she would think about this yawning gap 
between her husband and their only son. I wondered what she must have been 
thinking all those years ago, when she gazed upon his tiny newborn body, and 
whether she thought about what he would look like as a man. I wondered if she 
would think that he has become like me at all . . . and whether she would 
like that or not.

I do not think so.

God help me, Magda -- I am sorry.


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