I call him Fraser.

Don't wanna. Busted a perp name 'a Fraser three years ago. Stupid kid, dirty, boozed up, headed for the hard stuff. On his way down in one a them spirals ya see alla time in the City. So when I see his name for the first time, and then when I connect it to the guy in the red suit who's so fuckin' clean he was Scotchguarded at birth, it just doesn't jive.

That changed real quick. Took alla one car ride with him climbin' all over the damn Riv like it was some kinda jungle gym, and I start to think Fraser's the name of some patron saint for Mounties. Or some untouchable Ice Prince of the North - I hear that one from the gals at the station alla time.

So I called him Fraser. Sure wasn't gonna call him Benton - he's a freak, but his parents didn't have to twist the knife by naming him Benton.

But that was when I didn't know who he was, who the guy hiding behind all the manners and the serge and the Canadianisms. Fraser's just a shell, like the Mountie suit, somethin' he hides behind. Everybody calls him Fraser.

I stopped wantin' to call him Fraser a while back. He's my partner, doesn't deserve to be the same to me as he is to everyone else. He deserves more from me than just a 'Fraser'-ing. Maybe it's that. Or maybe it was the dreams, dreams that had him hot and sweatin' and twistin' beneath me, head thrown back calling my name... Oh yeah - in my dreams, I didn't call him Fraser.

'Ben.' I whisper it in the dark before I go to sleep. I practice callin' him Ben in the mirror in the mornings, when I can barely contemplate what my hair's gonna do, I can look myself in the eye and 'Ben' slips so easily from my lips. I say it soft, like I'm whisperin' in his ear, and I say it like I'm the only one that can push his buttons and he's all mine, and I say it like the world is endin' and he's the only person I wanna spend the night with.

'Ben.' I think about saying it to him, just turning to him in the car one night and saying that one word, and in a moment of perfect partnership, he understands me. I think about slippin' it inta conversation one day and watch his face as he tries to puzzle out the sudden shift in nomenclature. I think about...

He's getting in the car, Dief's in, he's reaching for the seat belt. I feel his heat next to me, but I don't take my eyes off the wheel. No, not today, I decide, and then I look at him.

"Ray." One word, soft. It's like he was staring into his mirror, contemplating his hair.

I smile. "Ben."

One word to make it all right. The mirrors are gone, who cares about hair, or guys named Fraser? His face is crackin' a grin like the lights on Christmas trees are goin' outta style. Somethin' clicks. It's alright. He's my Ben.

The End

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