I knock tentatively on the door, feeling exposed in the half-lit hallway. Apparently most of the WWF office staff isn’t quite as dedicated as our heir apparent, since most everyone else has gone home. Everyone with any sense, anyway.

I nearly had to beg, bribe and proposition the night guard to let me in. Like it’s my fault I had to spend three fucking hours trying to find Waltman in the locker rooms? If Mark hadn’t noticed me running around and mentioned that I should ask Shane, I’d still be there.

Adam better be damned grateful for this.

I knock on the door again, a little less patiently this time. Nobody answers, even though I can see through the cracks around the door that the lights are on in his office. Knowing my luck and his work habits, he probably passed out on his desk again. The guy’s a damned workaholic before thirty.

With a hard sigh I don’t particularly mean and without much hope that it’ll get a reply, I call through the door, “Shane?”

“Come in.”

The soft reply catches me by surprise, making me start. God, Reso, skittish much? Taking a deep breath, I try to slip a smile into my voice as I reach out to jiggle the knob.

“Well, maybe if you’d unlock the-“

The doorknob turns easily in my hand. I stare at it, surprised. Shane doesn’t leave his office door unlocked at night. Ever. Something’s wrong.

“Door,” I finish lamely, and hope my voice doesn’t give me away.

Shane’s answering chuckle sounds rough, fake. It sounds like the laugh of someone who’s trying not to scream. “Are you coming in or not?”

Actually, Shaneo, if it’s all the same to you I’ll just run the fuck away now. My hand twitches uneasily on the doorknob, then tightens until my knuckles whiten. I’m not afraid. There’s nothing to be afraid of, dammit. There’s not.

Shaking myself, I push the door open, start to say something, and freeze.

I never understood what the phrase ‘death warmed over’ meant, until this moment, when I see Shane. It’s something beyond pulling an all-nighter; it’s beyond sick and exhausted. If I couldn’t see his shoulders rising and falling with each breath, those bright-dark eyes fixed on my face, I’d be checking for a pulse.

I cross the room without thinking and kneel beside his chair. He doesn’t complain when I grab the arms and spin him to look at me, which is a sign of how far gone he must be. His eyes look glassy as he blinks down at me and rasps dryly, “Something wrong?”

“You tell me. You look like shit, and-“ I grab his hand, preparing to give him the chewing out that I know I probably shouldn’t, and stop. “Jesus, your skin is like ice.”

Shane’s expression doesn’t even flicker. His voice is suddenly impersonal, as cold as his hands. “Why are you here, Jason?”

“Never mind that.” Letting go of him, I study the gray tint to his already pale skin, the dark circles under his eyes. His breathing sounds harsh, mechanically steady, like the sound of a comatose man’s respirator. I’ve helped to drag him home from this kind of office-bender on more than one occasion, but I’ve never seen him this bad. “Shane, how long have you been sitting in this office?”

The smirk that tilts up those full, suddenly bloodless lips is disturbing, to say the least. Not all there. Sinking back in his chair, he purrs, “Days. They come by and yell at me, tell me that I’m hurting all of them.”

Warily, I sit back and ask, “Who’s them?”

He ignores me, instead growling sullenly, “I don’t give a fuck. They can’t make me do this.” Glancing at the ceiling, he adds spitefully to someone who’s not there, “You can’t make me!”

Oh, God. He’s finally lost it. Searching for something to do, some way to make this better, I touch his shoulder gently. “I think I ought to get you home-“

“Don’t fucking patronize me,” he snaps, so sharply that I stare at him. “You have no idea where ‘home’ is. If you did, you’d run screaming.”

“Considering your sister, yes. I probably would.” Okay. Humor is good. I hope so. Christ, how do I end up in the middle of these things? Why didn’t I ask Rodney to come with me? He’d handle this so much better than I can. How am I supposed to fix this?

First things first, I guess.

“When’s the last time you slept, man?”

That same unfamiliar smirk tilts up his lips again. Even on his worst days, Shane’s never smiled like that. I could always see a trace of warmth in it, tempering it, keeping it safe. Keeping it sane.

I can’t see that warmth anymore.

“I don’t need sleep.”

I laugh a little uneasily at that. I can’t help it. “I beg to differ, man. You’re out of it.”

He shakes his head, still smirking. It makes him look incongruously feral; a wolf with a knowing smile and very well hidden teeth. “Not anymore.”

Drugs, my mind chants. Delirium. Psychotic breakdown from working himself way too hard for way too long. There has to be some kind of explanation, and my mind’s grabbing for any that it can find, distracting me from the bigger problem at hand: exactly what I’m supposed to do with him now.

I can’t just whack him with something and drag him to bed; I’d be fired. Besides, Shane’s a good guy. He deserves better than a well-meant concussion, even if he is scaring the hell out of me.

Watching his hands twitch and grasp at the arms of the chair like his grip is the only thing keeping him from sliding to the floor, I ask finally, “Have you eaten?”

He laughs, high and sharp and fairly hysterical. “That’s the problem, Jase. That’s the problem.”

If I had any doubt that he’s cracked, that laugh would have decided it. I glance at the phone, debate over calling Rodney or Vince, and quickly push the thought aside. Something tells me that Shane wouldn’t be real happy with that idea, and I don’t feel like trying to pin him down until the Calvary arrives.

Drumming my fingers nervously on his desk, I offer without much hope, “Want me to call in, then?”

Shane gives me the patented scornful McMahon look and shakes his head, wincing with the careless motion. His eyes flicker closed suddenly as a shadow of pain crosses his face, adding years he doesn’t have. I start to touch him, and his eyes snap back open again. The cold of a moment before is gone, replaced by something warm and genuinely human. Fear.

I back off, laying my hand carefully on his shoulder. “Easy, Shane. Relax. You’re okay.”

Jerking away like I’d burnt him, he sighs hard and puts his head in his hands. “You shouldn’t be here.”

I gentle; I can’t help it. He looks like a wreck, young and hurting so badly that my stomach twists in sympathy.

“Why? Why shouldn’t I be here?”

“You don’t understand what you’re dealing with.” His hands tremble suddenly, tightening on his hair as he shakes his head violently. “You don’t understand what I am.”

The self-loathing is as rich as fine poison in his voice. Kneeling in front of him, I curl my fingers over his and soothe, “Take it easy, Shane. Easy. Don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself.”

He makes a soft noise dangerously close to a sob and lifts his head to stare at me, his eyes too bright in the overhead lights. “You don’t know…” he says, almost plaintive.

I cut him off, resting my hands on his shoulder. “I know you. You’re tired, and you’re confused, and you just mind-fucked yourself by not sleeping for God knows how long. But you’re a good guy.”

A sharp sound too harsh to be a laugh jerks him. Shaking his head again, he grits, desperately, “You have no idea. You shouldn’t. I don’t want you to.” With a motion so sudden that I start, he grabs my arms and grips so hard that he’ll probably leave bruises. His eyes are wide and bright and frighteningly earnest as he pleas, “Run, Jason. Get the fuck out of here before you get hurt.”

“You’re not scaring me, Shane,” I lie, meeting his eyes without flinching. “I’m not going to run.”

“You idiot!” Shaking me again so hard he nearly jars something loose, he snarls, “I might hurt you, you stupid prick! I might… I can’t… oh, God, I’m so hungry I can’t…”

I don’t think about it. I just slide on to the couch and pull him close, cradling his head against my chest. He snarls, fights, pushing at me with a hell of a lot more strength than I ever would have given him credit for. Even that, though, eventually breaks down, and he slumps against me, shuddering. It’s an improvement.

I wait until he quiets to start to stroke at his hair. He snarls weakly, the sound more feral than anything I could have imagined him ever making. I can feel him shaking, every inch of him. He’s freezing cold, and I can’t seem to warm him.

“You need food, Shane,” I tell him flatly, trying for a tone he can’t argue with.

“You’re a fool.” The despair in his voice chills me. He sounds broken. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“No. I have every idea. I’m going to feed you.” Pushing him back a little, I point at the couch. “You’re going to sleep until it gets here. That’s not a fucking request.”

Shane doesn’t even glance up, staring at his shaking hands. Frustrated, I turn away. As soon as my back is to him, I can almost feel his eyes burning into me from behind. Ignoring it, I reach for the phone and the directory, flipping through it for all-night delivery places. We’re in a big city, they shouldn’t be hard to find, right?

Leather creaks as Shane climbs off the couch, and I bite back a sigh. “Shane,” I inform him without turning, “I told you to stay put.” When he doesn’t answer, I do sigh and start to glance over my shoulder at him. “Okay, fine. What’re you in the mood for?”

Warm, surprisingly strong arms loop around me from behind, pulling me back against a lithe, solid body. Shane almost seems to nuzzle me for a second, the hair sliding off my throat as he whispers harshly, his breath cold on my shoulder, “I’m sorry.”

I soften, and start to turn. “Shane,” I begin, and never end, because the pain stops me. Sharpness tears the skin of my throat open, and for a split second I feel wetness soak my shirt. Then warm, soft lips cover the wound, and the blood finds a new place to go.

My gasp sounds harsh, but soft suckling noises drown it out a second later. And God, I can feel the heat being pulled out of me, I can feel the blood being pulled out of me. I try to jerk away, and his grip tightens until I feel my ribs creak. He snarls, and this time it is feral, there’s no doubting that. Blood trickles out of his mouth, down my back. It feels so sick, and it feels so wrong, and it feels so good. I think I’m dying. I think I’m coming. The room’s going black either way.

My body slumps in Shane’s arms, my throat making weak little dying-animal sounds as he gnaws at the place of my neck that he tore open. Dying. I’m dying. I’ll never have sex again. I’ll never watch a sunset again. I’ll never see Adam smile again. Oh, God, Adam, Adam, I’m so sorry…

The door swings open, bringing in light and noise. Shane snarls. Strong hands grab me roughly and start to pull me in what seems like every direct at once. Sean’s voice, loud and furious, snarls “God damn it, Shane, you stupid little prick!” in the noise. I reach for him, try to tell him that I was looking for him, but I’m not sure I move. The screaming gets louder and louder, the pain gets sharper, everything gets brighter…

And then there’s nothing at all.