Wes, Eric, and all other characters from Power Rangers belong to Disney/Saban. I am using them without permission, however I have not and don't expect to make money from this.

Rated T: language, violence, sexual content including m/m sexual relationships.

A/N: This is a response to the Power Rangers Slash Write 22 challenge, a slash-oriented romance theme challenge. A link to the challenge site on LiveJournal is in my profile.

Reviews are always appreciated.

Special A/N: This chapter takes place after my fic 'Boxed In' and its epilog 'What Dreams May Come'. It contains spoilers for that story and mentions events from it.

Turns in the Road

Buried

- - -

How many times have I been here? Dozens. So why is it so much harder this time?

I look at it through my car window. A beautiful, peaceful place. Trees, grass, bright sunlight spilling over the headstones. Birds are chirping; there's a warm breeze. And yet I feel the chill of the grave.

- - -

With a frown, Eric put the phone down. No answer. Probably nothing to worry about; Wes could have a million things to do on a nice, sunny Sunday afternoon. And yet - that might explain why he didn't answer his private line at home, but not why his cellphone was going straight to messaging. He must have it turned off.

While Eric had no pretensions to being an overly sensitive person, he knew something had been bothering Wes for the last week. His partner had been quiet, and often without his usual smile. Something was off. And it was especially troubling coming now, just when it seemed like Wes had recovered from his recent ordeal.

How long had it been? Eric frowned again. Three months. No, a little more. A little over three months since Wes had been kidnapped and buried alive for five agonizing days. He had escaped; one kidnapper was dead, the other in jail. Wes had had trouble sleeping, and had been on medication and gotten off it. He claimed to be fine. Eric had faced his own problems with his fear of losing his lover, and he claimed to be fine too. They were both fine. On the surface.

But - Eric still looked at Wes sometimes and wished, just for a moment, that they had never gotten together. That he had nothing, and therefore could lose nothing. And Wes - yeah, he was fine. Except for the couple of times he had waked Eric up in the middle of the night with his nightmares. How many more times had it happened on the nights they didn't spend together?

And now, today? Normally Eric wouldn't have worried - but some deep instinct told him something was wrong. After all, this was a special day.

- - -

I can't face her. Not yet. Not if I'm going to look at her name carved in gray stone and picture her down there cold and dead, alone, rotting, the worms... No!

So I turn away. Start walking aimlessly. And somehow my feet lead me to another spot, to another name written above two dates. This time the second one is recent, only a little over three months ago. This grave isn't as nice as hers, or as well cared for, and it's hidden away in a corner behind some trees as if its occupant should be ashamed to be here. As I stand over it I wonder if anyone else has stood in this spot, if anyone loved this man or cares that he's gone.

- - -

"Hello?"

"Eric, I hate to call you at home on a weekend like this, but..."

"Mr. Collins? Is something wrong?"

"It's probably nothing."

"Go on. What's the problem?"

"It's Wes. As I said, probably nothing to worry about."

"Wes?" Eric hesitated. "I tried to call him a little while ago. He didn't answer his bedroom phone, and I think he has his cell turned off."

"I'm not surprised."

"Do you know where he is?"

"Yes, I think I do."

- - -

Christopher Watson. Chris Watson. What were you like? I know there's no simple answer to that. You were a thief, and a kidnapper, but you died because you didn't want to be a murderer.

It's strange, how I feel when I look down at his grave. I never even met the guy, not really, unless you count being shot full of drugs by someone as a meeting. I should hate him, I guess, but I can't. I look down, and I wonder what he was like. Oh, I know what he looked like - about my size, about my build, enough that his body was mistaken for mine. But who was he? What did he think about, what did he dream of, why did he do the things he did? Why do I feel a connection between us?

- - -

"It's Mother's Day."

"I know," Eric said. "I thought Wes has been a little - depressed lately, and I thought maybe that's why."

"I'm sure it is." The older man's voice was thoughtful, and concerned. "And I suspect that's where he's gone. He always goes to visit his mother's grave, every year."

"You didn't go with him?"

"No. I go on our anniversary. We both go on her birthday. Ever since Wes was old enough to make the trip by himself, this has been - sort of his day to be alone with her, if you know what I mean." Collins sighed. "I offered to go along this time, because of what happened, but he didn't want me to."

"He wouldn't, if he's worried..." Eric trailed off. If Wes was worried about his own reactions to visiting a graveyard after being buried in one himself, he certainly wouldn't want his father to be a witness.

"Right." There was another pause. "Eric, if I go after him, I'm not sure how he'll take it. But if you were to happen to show up..."

"You think he wouldn't get mad at me, too?" Eric snorted faintly.

Collins' voice was wryly amused. "I'm his father. You're... not his father. And that makes a big difference."

"I'm not an expert on fathers, but I guess so. Okay, I'm on my way."

- - -

Chris... In a way, he died instead of me. If he had gone along with Russell, I'd be the one who's dead now. I'd be the one inside that coffin. It could so easily be him up here and me down there.

I look down, and for a moment it's like I can see through earth and stone and coffin. I see him lying there, trapped inside with no air and no space, with no life and no hope... and he's me.

- - -

Eric had no trouble finding Mrs. Collins' grave; it was in the shade of a grove of trees, in the center of a large lot on the side of a gentle slope. No sign of Wes. He took a moment to scan the area carefully. Nothing. If Wes hadn't come here, then where? And how to find him?

He was about to turn back to his car when his eyes fell on the headstone. 'Kathleen Collins. Loving wife and mother.' What had she been like? As kind-hearted and generous as Wes? Eric had seen her picture in Wes's room many times, and now he found himself trying to picture her in life, her eyes as blue and bright as Wes's, her smile as wide, her laughter as cheerful. He bent his head for a moment in respect for a woman he had never met, except in the form of her son.

It was when he lifted it again for a last glance around the cemetery that it hit him. Hers wasn't the only grave Wes might have an interest in. It was worth checking out. Eric fished in his memory for the location, and then started walking.

- - -

I look in horror at my own face, staring back in fear and pleading, silently begging to be let out. And then I'm looking up from the coffin, unable to move, to breathe, the weight of six feet of dirt pressing me down, the cold of the grave, the stillness of death, and I hear a small and terrified sound.

- - -

Wes swayed unsteadily, the fresh air and bright sunshine turning into darkness and the stifling smell of dank earth. He put out a hand and felt hard, rough wood - it was all around, above, on every side, under his back as he cried out and beat on the unyielding walls with his fists...

"Wes! Wes!"

Hands grabbed his arms, pulling him back upright and giving him a slight shake. Wes gasped in fear. There was no one here, no one to save him; he was all alone in the box, locked up underground. No one, just a coffin closing in around him... He shut his eyes tight, struggling blindly to get free.

"Wes! Wes, it's okay. You're safe now; everything's okay." Arms were wrapped around him, pulling him back from the dark and cold.

Light seeped through Wes's closed lids. A soft breeze cooled his face and ruffled his hair. Sound returned: birds, the sough of wind in the treetops. He was free and alive. Safe, although his heart still hammered and his breath came fast and hard. He opened his eyes to see Eric's face, anxiously peering into his. "Eric?" he asked unsteadily.

"Yeah... Are you all right?"

"I'm not sure," Wes said slowly. "I just... I felt like..."

"What?"

Wes tried to shrug him off. "Nothing. I'm fine."

Eric tightened his grip. "Yeah, right, you're fine. Tell me what happened."

"I don't want to talk about it!"

"There were things I didn't want to talk about, remember?" Eric's voice was challenging. "But you made me do it, and I'm glad you did. Well, the shoe's on the other foot now. Spill it."

Wes couldn't help smiling. "Spill it? That's a great bedside manner you've got there."

"We'll talk bed later." But Eric gave him the ghost of a smile and let go, hesitating before asking, "It was being here, wasn't it? A cemetery. And this grave."

"Yes..." Wes shivered, and turned away, continuing in a low voice. "I felt like I was back there. In the box. Like it was happening all over again. It was... I couldn't breathe. I couldn't see. I just felt the walls, all around." He glanced back at Eric. "I don't understand. It was so real, like my nightmares, but I wasn't asleep. I could see it, and feel it, and smell it, just like I had been put back there." He shuddered. "Or like I never really left, and being out is just a dream..."

"Wes." Eric was closer, bracing his shoulders with a supporting arm, talking to him with quiet firmness. "It's post-traumatic stress. Flashbacks, like waking dreams. It's not unusual for people who've been through something like you have."

It came out with a choked and humorless laugh, almost before Wes was aware of the thought. "You mean I'm not crazy?"

"Of course not. And you're not still in the box, and you're never going back."

"Never?"

"I promise." Eric released him and stepped back. "You gotta expect being in a place like this will bring it on. You'll feel a lot better as soon as we get out of here."

Wes frowned. "I can't leave. Not yet."

"Your mother?" When Wes nodded Eric went on. "Maybe you should skip it this year. Give it some time."

"No." Wes sighed, his eyes moving past Eric to look towards where her grave waited. "It would be giving up. Letting fear keep me away, letting it beat me. And - how do I know things would be any better next year?" He faced Eric again. "I have to do this now, or maybe I'll never be able to."

"Okay." Eric nodded. "I understand."

"Umm..." Wes eyed his partner, feeling almost shy. "Would you go with me?"

"I was about to say I'm coming whether you want me to or not."

- - -

I read the name carved in gray stone. Looking down, I imagine the layers of earth between us, the enclosure of her coffin. My eyes close as I wonder if that nightmare image will come again to haunt me, the image of death and decay and horror...

I feel a touch, and look up as Eric takes my hand - not without a quick glance around to see if anyone's watching - his fingers strong and steady as they intertwine with mine. Despite his own fears he makes this revealing gesture in a public place, to support and reassure me, to be the rock I can build my courage on.

And when I look down again, what I see is not the cold finality of the grave, but a warm and loving presence that smiles back, and is happy for me.

- - -

TBC...