Tha Mi     Disclaimer: This story is written for the private
entertainment of fans. The author makes no claims on the characters or
their portrayal by the creation of this story. Fraser, Vecchio, et.al.
belong to Alliance. No infringement of any copyrights held by CBS,
Alliance, CTV or any other copyright holders of DUE SOUTH is intended.
This story is not published for profit, and the author does not give
permission for this story to be reproduced for profit.
 
 Rated PG m/m Fraser/Kowalski
 Notes: Tha Mi is Gaelic for 'I am'.
 Tha Mi
 
 by Carol Trendall
 
 He had coveted a garment like this for a long time. Made of the finest
wool from yarn hand dyed and woven into a massive length of fabric, its
design was centuries old, lovingly created by the finest craftsmen who
themselves wore similar garments. The garment was laid between sheets of
delicate paper, packed with its accessories into a box and shipped across
the world into the waiting hands of Constable Benton Fraser, who had no
doubt that he now possessed the finest kilt in America.
 
 The box sat on his desk, unopened, until the end of the day. He had not
wanted to open it whilst others were in the consulate – others who might
not understand the importance of the garment. This was something to be
cherished, worn in private and made his. The time would come when he would
wear it for all to see, but for the moment he was content to wear it
alone.
 
 Fraser drew the garment from its nest of tissue and with great reverence
carried it into the hallway outside his office, where he stretched it out
to its full ten yards on the smooth hardwood floor. Taking two deep,
cleansing breaths, he dropped to his knees and lowered himself onto the
length of cloth, arms stretched across its width. After another deep
breath he began. When he was certain of his precision he began the fold,
continuing in the time-honoured fashion as taught to him by his paternal
grandfather many years earlier.
 
 When the fold was complete he rose and positioned the cloth around his
body; secured by the broad leather belt that had been packed with the
kilt. When the final length was draped across the shoulder of the white
cotton tunic that accompanied the kilt, Fraser secured it not with the pin
that had arrived in the package, but with an old penannular pin that had
been handed down from his grandfather to his father and now to him. 
 
 He hesitated before checking his appearance in the mirror, but was
pleased when he finally did. Not normally a vain man, Fraser smiled with
intense satisfaction at the figure he cut. He knew the time would soon
come when he could wear his kilt proudly for others to see. That thought
made him smile even more and it was with a light heart he set about the
filing Inspector Thatcher had left for him to complete that evening.
 
 
 After an hour of solid filing, he collected the final stack of paperwork
from his desk and carried it to the filing cabinet, softly humming a jig
as he worked. He was so intent on the tune and sway of his kilt against
his bare legs that it took longer than normal for Fraser to realise he was
not alone. He looked up from his filing and smiled with pleasure when he
saw his partner standing in the doorway.
 
 "Hello, Ray."
 
 Ray was too stunned to speak at first. He moved his weight from one foot
to the other then scrubbed a hand through his spiky blonde hair. Finally,
he found his voice.
 
 "Fraser, what the hell are you wearing?"
 
 "It's a kilt, Ray." He stepped away from the cabinet and moved towards
his friend. "You see I ... "
 
 Ray rolled his eyes. "I'm not stupid. I know it's a kilt. What I want to
know is *why* you're wearing it."
 
 It was the Mountie's turn to be surprised. Did Ray not know of his
heritage? "I'm a Fraser ... of Scottish descent. I thought it time I
publicly acknowledged my culture."
 
 Ray moved into the room and settled onto the edge of the desk. His
relaxed posture and teasing smile showed he was over his initial surprise.

 
 "So this is some sort of Mountie 'return to the tribe'?"
 
 Fraser's body language was a little defensive. "Well, that's a crude way
of putting it, Ray, but I think you understand."
 
 Ray shook his head in disbelief. "You know I'm all for getting in touch
with your heritage, but geez, I don't think I'd wear that."
 
 Fraser was nonplussed. "You don't have to. You're Polish." He stepped
back to the cabinet and returned to his filing, stuffing a few documents
into folders before speaking again, this time allowing a note of petulance
to creep into his voice. "Anyway, it all depends on how important it is to
be recognisable as belonging to a particular clan. It's become very
important to me lately ... I mean, to wear the tartan of my clan."
 
 Ray shrugged. "Whatever works for you, buddy." He looked away from his
friend and began fiddling with the neat row of pens on Fraser's desk. "I
guess I never thought the Fraser tartan would be so ... colourful."
 
 Fraser looked up from his task, his mouth forming a perfect 'o'. "Oh this
isn't the Fraser tartan, Ray. The Fraser tartan is red and black."
 
 "Of course." He rolled his eyes then looked up to meet his friend's
steady gaze. "So you're wearing some other tribe, or clan, or whatever ...
you're wearing their tartan? Isn't there a law about that?"
 
 Fraser's voice grew serious. "No need for a law, Ray. No Scotsman would
wear another clan's tartan. It could lead to all sorts of trouble." 
 
 Confused, Ray leaned forward slightly. "So why are you wearing someone
else's tartan?"
 
 "But I'm not, Ray."
 
 "I don't get it, Fraser. You said that ... thing ... you're wearing is
not Fraser tartan."
 
 "That's right. This kilt is not the Fraser tartan, but it is still my
clan tartan."
 
 Ray frowned. "What the hell are you talking about?"
 
 Given the opportunity to tell his story, Fraser's face lit up and his
voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "You see, this tartan is a new
one, only registered recently. There is a great body in Scotland, the
Scottish Tartan Society, which accepts hundreds of applications every year
to register new tartans. This one is very important, you see, because it
establishes acceptance of a whole clan."
 
 "And you belong to that clan?" Ray folded his arms across his chest and
cocked his head to one side.
 
 "Yes, I do."
 
 "I don't get it." Ray's voice showed his confusion. "Don't you have to be
born somewhere? Or marry someone? You can't just decide to belong to a
clan, can you?"
 
 "Times have changed, Ray. Previously, some groups came under the
protection of other clans. Now, new tartans are accepted from those groups
as well as others so that they become a clan in their own right. It's very
important in this day and age."
 
 "So this new group ... they ..."
 
 "Oh it's not new, Ray. This clan has been around for a long time."
 
 "Whoa, you haven't gone and joined some weird religious sect have you? Do
I have to learn some special handshake?"
 
 "No, that would be the Masons."
 
 "So, spill it already. What is it?"
 
 Fraser put down his files, smoothed the pleat of his kilt and squared his
shoulders. 
 
 "Ray, I am wearing the tartan of the gay and lesbian clan."
 
 Ray gave a derisive snort. "Well that would explain the rainbow colours."
 
 Ignoring the barb, Fraser said simply, "Yes, it does."
 
 "But I still don't ... " Eyes widening, Ray voice showed his shock. " ...
wait ...you're a member of this clan?" 
 
 Fraser nodded once, firmly. "I am."
 
 "So I guess you don't mean you think you're a lesbian because you like
women?"
 
 "No, Ray." He shook his head solemnly. "I'm gay because I like men."
 
 "All this time ... you never told me ... " Ray's voice trailed off in
wonder.
 
 "You never asked."
 
 "You're right." In the light of Fraser's candid response, he had no other
answer.
 
 Ray's voice dropped to a low, sexy level. "So, do I get to find out
what's under your kilt?"
 
 Fraser rolled his eyes. He had anticipated this question. "That's such a
cliché."
 
 "So? I want to know."
 
 Finally recognising the real interest in his friend's tone, Fraser
squeaked out, "You want to know what's under my kilt?"
 
 Cocky now, Ray pushed off the desk and swaggered towards the Mountie.
"Hey, I might even want to wear one."
 
 "You're Polish." 
 
 "You're quick, Fraser," Ray said, raking his eyes over the broad chest
that was now right in front of him.
 
 "So," Fraser breathed, letting Ray back him up against the filing
cabinet, "does this mean that you, ah, that you ... belong to this clan?"
 
 "Sometimes." Ray pressed himself against Fraser, his hands resting on the
other man's hips.
 
 It was a while before Fraser could speak again, but when he did his voice
was slightly higher than normal. "Well Ray," he cleared his throat and
continued, "I'll ... I'll ... have to think about that. You see, wearing a
kilt is a big decision ... you have to be prepared to make a commitment
..."
 
 "I can do that." Ray's tone was bolder than ever as he sent his hand down
Fraser's firm thigh.
 
 "Well, good. I think ... I think ...Ray! You're hands are cold."
 
 "Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you pleased to see me?"
 
 "There are no pockets in a kilt and you know I'm not licensed to carry a
gun in Chicago."
 
 Ray's voice was smug. "Then I guess you're pleased to see me."
 
 Fraser didn't answer. He just set about showing Ray how pleased he was to
see him.
 
 Comments welcome at mullum@tig.com.au