Chapter One

"Come on man, it's not going to kill you! You just need to try new things occasionally!"

The Motor City Machine Guns, Alex Shelley and Chris Sabin, were backstage at the TNA iMPACT! taping, waiting until they were next called to do a segment. It had been a busy day, and it seemed that their luck was turning around. Recently, they seemed to only be on TV for short matches wherein they had been unjustly robbed of their opportunities and made to job at every turn. But when they had arrived at the studio that morning, they had been hurriedly pulled into a meeting where they had been informed by a harassed looking group of assistants and junior writing staff that there had been a change of plan.

A member of a tag team had been injured, and the Machine Guns had been chosen to fill the place of the other team. This meant, though, they were told as new run sheets were thrust into their hands and they were all but pushed out the door, that they would have to tape a backlog of matches and promos to make up for the sudden change. So they had taped a match, them getting beaten down, and two promos before lunch, and they were taking a break, lounging on fold out chairs, a selection of food before them.

Sighing, Alex Shelley looked at his tag team partner. "Why won't you just try it? The very worst that will happen is that you won't like it, and then no harm, no foul. It's not like you're getting married or anything."

Sabin sighed, watching a petite brunette walk past. He cracked a smile as the woman turned back, winking at him. "But what if it causes me problems? You know the kind of luck I've been having lately..."

"Sabin, buddy, it's one date. Again, it's not going to kill you. I promise."

Sabin leered at the other man. "And if it does?"

"It won't, I swear."

Sabin sighed, rubbing his forehead in thought. "Fine, hand it over."

With a grin, Shelley plucked a date out of the bag he was holding and dropped it into Sabin's outstretched hand. He nibbled on it tentatively at first, and when he didn't gag from the flavour, he popped the rest of the fruit into his mouth. He chewed the date twice and then went to swallow.

Sabin liked to live by the assumption that he knew his body fairly well – after all, he had had it all his life. So when he felt his throat constrict, and he started coughing, he knew something wasn't right. But Shelley, not possessing the other man's body, wasn't aware of this. "How about you try chewing, buddy?" He laughed, and turned to talk to AJ Styles, who had just wandered up, seeing the two men resting.

While they spoke, Sabin started to panic. He couldn't get any air in, and growing desperate as the coughing seemed more and more futile, fell onto the floor on his hands and knees, trying to find anything to drink.

By the time the coughing stopped and Shelley turned back – assuming that his friend knew how to chew and swallow without any help – Chris Sabin was dead.

Alex Shelley had assumed wrong.

**

They had the funeral. As Shelley watched the coffin descend into the ground, he finally gave in to the tears that he had been fighting for the last week. He had to be helped back to the car, and in no state to drive, was driven home, weeping the whole way.

The body had been flown back to Detroit the day after, the medical examiner declaring it an accidental death with no foul play apparent. He had delivered this news to the family, Shelley sitting amongst them. They had all flown up when they got the news, and been with him to escort the body back. The arrangements had been made, Shelley included by the family, though he didn't really remember any of it. It had all been a blur of pain, misery and remorse.

When Shelley arrived home, he was put to bed. He curled up under the blanket, not bothering to change out of his suit, and cried like he hadn't since he was a child.

Eventually, he slept.

**

Alex Shelley lay in his bed, unable to move. The days drifted past, turning into weeks. He realised that he had quite possibly been lying there for months. He didn't care.

Doctors came and prescribed medication for him. They said he was depressed – they all said he was depressed, needed to handle the pain and move on. He didn't care.

**

"Enough."

The voice cut through Shelley's sleeping mind one morning, and he jolted awake. He could have sworn it was the voice of Chris Sabin, but when he looked up, he saw another figure standing above him. Sabin's mother stood over him, a mug of tea in hand. Placing it firmly on the bedside table, she strode over to the curtains and pulled them back, letting the daylight stream in. Shelley shut his eyes and pulled the blanket over his head, not wanting to face the outside world.

"It's July first, do you realise that? You've been moping for far too long, and I've had enough of it. I know Chris-"her voice broke when she spoke the name, and Shelley vaguely wondered how many times she had actually spoken it since the funeral, "wouldn't want you to keep on like this. I know that's not what he was about, and it's certainly not what you are. So get OUT of that bed this instance, young man, get in that shower, and then you are going to the gym!"

If it had been anyone else, Shelley would no doubt have stayed in bed. But a combination of it being an authoritative voice, the voice of a mother, and most of all a voice that carried the same accent and inflection of Sabin's, made Shelley groan and start to roll out of bed.

"Now get in that shower, and when you're out and dressed, I'm driving you to the gym myself. Don't hang about, either. It's time to get moving."

**

Shelley unlocked the door and walked into the house, his feet dragging. He had been forced to stay at the gym until he was given permission to leave, and then driven back home. Through the months of inactivity, Shelley had become stiff and out of shape. He realised, as he glared at the low resistance on the treadmill, that he hated feeling that way. He had made a deal with himself that whatever else he did he would get back into shape. He hadn't bought a change of clothes to the gym, so he headed straight for the bathroom.

As he let the hot water wash over him, he surveyed his body, making a note of everything that he wanted to change, all the muscles and how they used to look. During the months, he had stopped eating nearly as much, and had lost weight. His skin, he noticed during his self-appraisal, didn't seem to fit on his arms like it used to. Shelley decided to make a list of all the areas on his body that he needed to get back into shape – he decided that he would throw himself into that endeavour and then face whatever came after it later.

He turned off the shower and reached for a towel, wrapping it around his waist. Feeling the aches and pains from his workout, he went to the cabinet and pulled the door open.

Dates poured out. They seemed to come from nowhere, cascading down into the sink and then overflowing to the floor. Shelley let out a scream, backing away. He rubbed his eyes and his cabinet was back to normal, lined with small bottles of vitamin supplements, bandages, and toiletries.

He slammed the cabinet door, muscle pain forgotten, and backed out of the bathroom.

**