Author's website: http://unhinged.0catch.com

Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were mine, they'd have non-stop sex and eat lots of chocolate.

Author's Notes:

Story Notes:

My grandparents, God rest their souls, believed they were doing me a favor by raising me to keep my feelings hidden. "You don't want to break down in front of people, Benton, " I remember my grandfather telling me when I was young. "A man should, at all times, keep himself under strict control; especially in social settings."

That's probably why no one in Chicago, with the exception of Ray Kowalski, knows how badly I hate Consulate functions.

Tonight's banquet was particularly trying. Between helping Inspector Thatcher evade the clutches of the Romanian ambassador, who'd taken it into his head that he wanted to marry her; correcting Constable Turnbull's unfortunate, but entirely inadvertent, linguistic errors (I'm still not sure I ever convinced the delegate from Rwanda that the Constable was simply admiring the intricate detail work on his robes, not making personal remarks about his girth); and trying to keep my distance from the wife and/or girlfriend of every man in attendance, all of whom were pursuing me with that gleam in their eyes that said they wanted to take me home and put me on the mantelpiece over the fireplace for their friends to admire, I'm afraid I did not deport myself as the best possible representative of Canada. What appalls me is that I can't even dredge up the enthusiasm to care.

It's well past midnight when I let Dief and myself into the apartment. The front room is dark, save from the illumination of the strings of red pepper lights hanging from Ray's cupboards, so he apparently heeded my advice to not wait up. This, I tell myself, is a good thing; the man's just come off a straight week of all-night stakeouts and he needs his rest. On the other hand, I wish he were awake so I could tell him about what happened while it's still fresh in my mind.

Dief nudges the back of my leg, and I realize I've been standing in one spot with the door open for several minutes. "Sorry," I murmur, and go on in, closing and locking the door behind me.

I go about my nightly routine as quietly as I can, hanging my tunic in the closet and carefully unlacing my boots and leaving them beside the door. I decide to forego a shower until tomorrow morning (the Inspector said not to bother coming in until 10; given the amount of Champaign she consumed over the course of the evening, I imagine she'll be lucky if she arrives at all), make sure Dief has water, and silently cross the living room in my stocking feet.

Ray and I have been lovers for nearly a year yet I still find myself wanting to knock on the bedroom door before I go in. I told him this one day at the precinct and he just grinned at me. "What? Think you're going to catch me doing something I shouldn't?" Still, he understands where the feeling comes from, how deeply it's been ingrained in me over the course of my life, and for that I'm grateful.

I go to push the door open and stop. There's a very strange noise coming from the other side; rather like cards being shuffled, but much more pronounced. Which means Ray isn't asleep after all

Confused, I open the door.

He's sitting on the floor beside the bed, wearing a tank top and boxer shorts. The bedside lamp is on, highlighting the gold streaks in his hair, and he has something in his hands. Cards of some sort...

"Driver's licenses." I'm not even aware I've spoken out loud until he looks up at me.

People who don't know Ray well believe he's a boundless font of energy. Which he is, but only up to a certain point. Past that point what he's doing ceases to be natural and becomes work. I've seen the man drive himself to near-collapse more times than I care to count, and this last week has taken its toll on him. His normally vivid blue eyes look bruised and his face has lines in it I know weren't there a week ago.

He manages to offer me a pale simile of his usual grin. "So. The Ice Queen decided to let you come home?"

I smile back and close the door behind me. "Actually, I jumped ship. Otherwise I'd still be there trying to explain to the Romanian ambassador that marriage and children are not in the Inspector's plans for the near future."

That earns me a snort. I begin to undress, watching Ray, who's gone back to contemplating the licenses in his hands. "What are they?"

He holds them up for my inspection. "These?" I nod. "Pieces of the puzzle, Frase."

In the beginning I used to think he was being deliberately obtuse when he made statements like that. I've since learned this isn't true. What it means is that he's been brooding over something; most likely the past.

I come over and sit on the bed. "Can I look at them?"

The only thing they have in common, I quickly discover, is that they all bear a picture of Ray. Everything else (name, date of birth, address, social security number) is different. I stop at one and read the name, then look down at Ray. "Patrick O'Hallaran?"

"You gotta admit, I look more like an O'Hallaran than I do a Vecchio."

"Not if you came from Northern Italy." There are six of them. Given the dates, I'd say they cover a stretch of roughly 3-4 years. "These are from your other undercover assignments."

He nods. "I'd forgotten I even had'em. I was cleaning out the dresser and there they were in a box in the sock drawer."

"And why were you cleaning out the dresser instead of getting some rest?"

He sighs and leans sideways, resting his head against my thigh. "I can't sleep if you're not here."

I nod my understanding, and my hand comes down to stroke his hair; a gesture I've discovered soothes him. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Yes. No. Maybe." He sighs again. "You ever feel like you don't know who you are, Frase?"

I lay the licenses on the bed and lean over, tilting his chin so he's looking at me. "Over the course of my life, Ray, I've been so many different people, I sometimes wonder who the 'real' Benton Fraser is."

"I know'im."

"You do?"

"Yeah. He's this really great guy who wants to do the right thing no matter what. He wants to be the perfect Mountie like his dad, except sometimes I think his dad wasn't nearly as perfect as he believes he was. He spends so much time trying to be everything to everyone he's completely forgotten how to be himself."

"But he's getting better at it."

"He has to, because his lover can't get his own shit together, and how can Fraser help him if he doesn't know who he is himself?"

"I think it works both ways, Ray."

"I know that." He scrubs his face with his hands, a common gesture when he's tired. "Just sometimes, I'm afraid I'm gonna wake up some morning and not be able to remember if I'm Ray Vecchio, or Patrick O'Hallaran, or James McDonald Hudson."

I sigh and comb my fingers through his hair. "I'll always know who you are, Ray. And if you forget, I'll tell you."

"Hmm." He's got his eyes closed; it's clear he's totally exhausted. "Promise?"

"I promise." I get my hands under his arms and carefully maneuver him into bed. He makes a half-hearted protest, but it's mostly for show. Once I'm sure he's not going to try and crawl out again, I finish undressing and join him.

We quickly settle in, Ray in his favorite position; snugged up again my side, with his head rested on my shoulder. My arm curls around him protectively, and I spend a moment reading myself the riot act that I haven't been here for him this past week like I should've.

"Not your fault, Ben." He burrows closer, his hair tickling my collarbone. "You gotta job, I gotta job."

"I know. I just wish I could spend more time with you."

"Me too." He yawns so wide, I'm amazed he doesn't dislocate his jaw. "How was the reception?"

"Boring. Well, except for the Romanian ambassador wanting to marry to Inspector."

"Tell me 'bout it."

So I do, exaggerating everyone's actions (as if they needed exaggerating). And eventually, in the middle of explaining Turnbull's grammar error, I drift off to sleep, supremely happy at being here with the man I love. No matter what he calls himself.

FIN

End Secret Identities by MR: psykaos42@yahoo.com

Author and story notes above.