I do not own X-Men: Days of Future Past.

I do not own Beast, Hank, or Nicholas Hoult.

In Between

Chapter 6: Time and Space

As it turned out, there were several side effects to Charles' psychic-damping, ambulation-inducing serum.

Guilt.

Shame.

The knowledge that he was shunning his gift, shutting himself down to those who cried out for help. Simply because it was too difficult for him, too painful. And that he had traded away all that infinite power just to walk on his own two legs.

And those heavy psychological side effects took a more dreadful toll on the good, upstanding man who was Charles Xavier than any physical side effects that he and Hank could have imagined.

He began to withdraw again. Worse this time.

He drank copiously. He brooded alone in dim rooms, shut away from everything around him. He insisted on overamounts of his serum. He cried when he thought no one could see.

And no one did. Except Hank.

It was then that dread began to creep into his heart and mind. Was Charles truly better off now? Ambulatory and quiet inside his own head yet being slowly eaten alive by guilt? Would it have been better to let him learn to cope with the cries, the screams, the pleas?

The chair?

How do you mark the passage of time in a timeless void? In a space where nothing changes, nothing moves, nothing breathes?

Do you watch the clocks? Those sneaky clocks whose hands move so slowly. Slower still when they catch you watching them. Seemingly to stop, to hold their breathing hands still just because you want them to move so badly.

Do you use the sun? The placement and strength of the light creeping through heavily drawn curtains that shut out the world. That sun that betrays you at the end of each day, drawing away from you, abandoning you to the creeping cold shadows of the lonely night.

Do you use your hobbies, your interests to pass the slow minutes, the hours, the days? Those things that once gave you joy and peace. Reading, studying, writing, experimenting. Those things that slowly become worn so thin and dry by overuse, by empty musings. Those things that once held such bright enticement and pleasure, now becoming grey and lifeless alongside everything else.

Xavier Manor had quite the extensive library, full of dusty tomes and forgotten words. It seemed vast and eternal. Until that's all there ever was. Then it became small, suffocating. Cloying.

Or perhaps do you use sound to push back against the encroaching silence? Music, television, your own echoing voice to accompany you when the silence grows too thick, too heavy for you to bear any longer, trapping you in a mire of isolation and hopelessness.

Daily routines perhaps? Waking, sleeping, eating, cleansing, all become rituals at which you cling. A strict schedule of your life to fill all the little spaces of time between periods of blessed unconsciousness.

Hank McCoy used all these methods and so many more to fill the yawning void that threatened to consume him in the quiet, still hours of his existence in that large, empty, desolate place. Living with and near yet so far away from the man who faded further and further away day after endless day.

He tried to maintain his equilibrium, his sanity, his purpose.

And it wasn't always easy.

Things requiring true self-sacrifice usually aren't.

Sometimes he ran.

As a man.

For exercise, for fresh air, a change of scene.

When the serum gave out and he returned to his furry, blue form, he sometimes ran as the beast.

Running free on his thick-soled prehensile feet. Away from the suffocating confines of his existence. Away from haunting memories of a crying young woman, of the void that stretched between them. Running away from his many regrets, his good-intentioned mistakes, his broken sorrows, his continuing frustrations. Running away from his monstrous self. That self which always seemed to catch up with him.

Running as fast as his beast feet and body would carry him. Through empty, ragged fields. Through dense forests, dodging massive trees. Leaping, swinging, flipping through branches, wild and feral. Crashing through underbrush, small woodland creatures fleeing before him in confusion and fear.

Pushing himself harder and harder until his heart pounded painfully, his muscles screamed, and spots danced behind his orange eyes. Until he collapsed from exhaustion and lay panting on whatever surface he had finally crumpled.

And eventually he would always get up and drag himself back to yawning chasm of the manor.

And take his serum once more.

Hank McCoy was a highly intelligent man. A scientist, a logical person who believed in reason, caution, and science. He was internal and taciturn by nature and by an entire lifetime of dedicated practice.

But even a quiet man, human or mutant, needs on occasion, some sort of support and companionship.

And suffers without it.

'Hello darkness, my old friend. I've come to talk with you again . . .'

Hank had never been much of a music follower, though he was sure it had drifted over him from time to time.

'And the vision that was planted in my brain still remains within the sound of silence . . .'

But he turned on the transistor radio that day to drive away the engulfing void of emptiness and despair. And this song with its floating resonations and mystical intonations seemed to draw out the depression and hopelessness within him. Showing it to him so that he could clearly see the depths of the dangerous cliff over which he was hovered every day. And then shoved it mercilessly back into his wilting soul even though it increased the ache, for there was no room to hold it all.

'In restless dreams I walked alone, narrow streets of cobblestone . . .'

The song forced him to face the mire in which Charles was drowning himself. That Hank could not stop yet could not walk away from. Of course, he could have overcome his own fear and just left Charles to fend for himself, but that's not what loyalty for Hank McCoy entailed. So he stayed.

'Fools," said I. "You do not know silence like a cancer grows . . .'

Overwhelmed with the squeezing sensation that had wrapped its clenching cold hands around him and was slowing crushing his entire sterum, Hank placed his trembling palms on the work surface before him. Closed his eyes. Breathed deeply, slowly, calmly. And concentrated, whispering for the beast within him to remain asleep.

'But my words, like silent raindrops fell and echoed in the wells of silence . . .'

And the undulating melodic waves reached out to him over and over again, stroking his soul with hurting, soothing fingers, cutting through the sounds of silence.

Gotta love "The Sound of Silence' by Simon and Garfunkel. It's like, all mystical and stuff.

I use lots of music in my writing and to inspire my writing. Because my head is filled with music all the time. Even found a spot for "What Does the Fox Say?" 'cause thanks to my son, that one just wouldn't leave.

Plus, in this story, it kind of helps with the timeline a little. Each song is taken from the year it was released. I know 'cause I looked it up. Told you I was a happy nerd. ;)

If you think about it, Hank seems like a big wimp, moping in that house for years, keeping away from the world. And he sort of is. But on the other side of that coin, sometimes it takes a lot of stamina, strength, and perseverance to hold out against the loneliness and depression that can overwhelm you in a situation like that.

Trust me, I know.

Now right before you sob and hate me and my darkness, consider this: What if Hank running around in the woods is the Bigfoot people kept seeing during that time period? Think about it. Nicholas Hoult wandering around in the forest, just freaking people out. There ya go, got you laughing again. Smiling at least? ;)

Thanks to MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul, lol, LightningRivera, lupoea2, Live4dancing, Voodoo-Mutant-Child, The Heroine With 1000 Faces, brigid1318, and theFGnat for taking the time to review.

Thanks to Hearts345, Mikari Satsuke, BlackShadow23, MonstrousWalnut, Shelllee24, and Tornado Ali for adding your support to this growing story.

Thanks to all of you (reviewers and non) who are choosing to come on this journey with me. I'll be honest. I don't yet know how long it will last but at least we know where we end up, right?

Yep, with Wolverine (hello, sweetie) standing on our doorstep, punching us right in the face! :)