TITLE: Core Values
AUTHOR: Liz Owens
E-MAIL ADDRESS: cantwaltz@aol.com
FEEDBACK: Proudly hung on the refrigerator bycantwaltz@aol.com
DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer and the usual atxc haunts. Anywhere else, just let
me know where it's going and leave my name and such attached.
SPOILER WARNING: Small one for "Anasazi."
RATING: NC-17
CLASSIFICATION: VKEYWORDS: MSR
DISCLAIMER: No, Mulder and Scully aren't mine-they belong to CC, the fine
folks at Fox, and 1013 Productions. "Never for money, always for love...."
But I'd like to observe them in a meeting sometime.
SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully attempt to endure a training session.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Whoa. No angst. I must be coming down with something. This
one is for my readers: Roxane, Sarah, and Patty, who put aside schoolwork
and let dinner get a little too crispy just to find a few minutes to read
my stuff. God bless 'em. Visit my other stories at
http://members.aol.com/cantwaltz.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"The strategic plan for accomplishing the FBI's mission must begin by
identifying the core values which need to be preserved and defended by the
FBI in performing its statutory missions. Those values are: rigorous
obedience to the Constitution of the United States; respect for the dignity
of all those we protect; compassion; fairness; and uncompromising personal
and institutional integrity. These values do not exhaust the many goals
which we wish to achieve, but they capsulize them as well as can be done in
a few words. Our values must be fully understood, practiced, shared,
vigorously defended and preserved."
-Louis J. Freeh, Director, Federal Bureau of Investigation

I knew I was in trouble when the first note plopped onto the smooth wood in
front of me. I give him credit for being surreptitious. I didn't even
notice him tearing the paper off his notepad, let alone creating origami.
The paper was carefully folded into an elaborate triangle, like those"
footballs" my brothers used to make when we were kids. They'd practice
drilling them through "goalposts" made of fingers--usually mine-giggling
like the fiends they were when they managed to hit my face.

Feeling like I'm sixteen and in study hall, I slide my fingers toward my
coffee cup and palm the note. I lift the cup to my mouth, dropping the
paper triangle into my lap. As the woman at the front of the room drones
on, I unwrap his handiwork.

**Do you think she's this boring at home, or only when she gets paid to
speak? Scully, how the hell did we get roped into this?**

I take my pen and notepad and arrange them so that I can slide the note out
of sight, then add a line.

**Continuing professional education. CPE, as in "I need X number of CPE
credits this year to keep my job." And it wasn't MY fault we missed that
teambuilding seminar last year, Mulder. Mothmen, remember?**

I fold the note carefully--although not as artistically as Mulder had--and
work my shoulders to make it look like I'm stiff from sitting so long. I'm
surprised how easily I remember the moves-the stretch, the drop. I cough
delicately to cover the rustle of paper as he opens my note.

I leave my hand hanging loosely at my side, and he rewards me quickly,
pressing a wad of paper into my fingers.

**Scully, you're no fun. I could almost believe you're enjoying this little
session. Between us, we have something like twenty years of field
experience. I think we know what the Bureau is all about by now. Core
values, my ass. Next thing you know, she's gonna have us play one of those
stupid games. Try to gauge how well we know each other.**

**Come on, Mulder, where's your team spirit?** I write. **We're supposed to
analyze how we work the Bureau's core values into our lives. Find out where
we can improve. Work on our communication. Play nice with the lady and we
can get out of here and go home early.**

The note is back in my hand almost immediately. **Team spirit?
Communication? Two words, Scully--last night.**

I feel the blush work its way up from my chest to my cheeks. Oh, yes. Last
night. Four days apart-three in the field and one I spent at my mother's to
celebrate her birthday--made us both a little eager. We didn't even make it
to my sofa before he'd tugged up my skirt and unfastened his pants, pinning
me to the wall with one hard stroke.

We didn't need words last night, no games, no social niceties--our need
spoke for us. But now.... I take up my pen.

**That is not in the spirit of fairness. You don't blush.**

I hear a sound like a muffled chuckle. I don't dare look at him.

**OK, Scully. I'll play nice. Although I really want to do a profile of
that woman. I think she's got some serious sexual repression issues--and
she probably sells Tupperware on the weekends.**

Damn him. **Tupperware is a fine product. Didn't you have those cereal
bowls when you were a kid? The pale plastic ones? All four of us used to
camp out in front of the TV on Saturday mornings, watch hours of cartoons,
and eat ourselves sick on Sugar Pops. I think it was the only peace Mom and
Dad ever got. They never got up until noon on Saturdays.**

He writes for a full five minutes, and I begin to get nervous. I can only
imagine what twisted opus he is composing.

A fresh piece of paper, half-filled, lands in my lap.

**Yes, we had those bowls. And the matching tumblers. And the coffee cups
in those sickly pastels that always looked like the sun had leeched all the
color out, even when they were new. Those cups made excellent digging
tools, if you were out hunting for bugs or wanted to make a swimming pool
for Barbie. (No, that was Samantha, not me, but since I was bigger, I got
to be the construction crew.) Although, as I recall, it was more like a spa
mud bath than a pool. The water was never clear and we couldn't figure out
why. But, Scully...I don't think Tupperware has anything to do with core
values. And I'm trying to learn something here. Stop distracting me. And no
comment about your parents. Thanks for putting those thoughts into my
head.**

The woman in the front of the room smiles brightly. "All right, I want you
all to try a little exercise." I hear a soft groan behind me. "List, on a
sheet of paper, two things that are true about you and one thing that is a
lie. Trade these with your partner and see if he--or she--" she gives me a
pointed look" can guess which is the lie. No fair telling them anything
they already know. We won't share these with the group, since we don't have
time, so feel free to write down anything. Anything at all."

Thank heaven we're not sharing. I imagine that most people will write
things like, "My college roommate married my sister." God only knows what
Mulder would say.

I number the page one through three, poise my ballpoint over the paper. OK,
Dana, I say to myself, be creative. And then I wonder. Would he really be
able to tell which was true, which was a lie? I mean, this is a man who
can't even remember my birthday. Well, that makes the first one easy.

**1. My birthday is February 23.**

Let's see if he notices that little dig. I glance at him out of the corner
of my eye, see him chewing on the cap of his pen as he ponders. He has such
an oral fixation.

Damn. I'm blushing again.

I focus on the lined paper, trying to force the heat from my face.

**2. I've never been to a major league baseball game.**

This is a lie. I went with my dad and my brothers several times as a kid,
whenever we were stationed near a big city. I remember the noise and the
crowds, the smell of beer and popcorn. I couldn't have cared less about the
game itself. I liked the sense of belonging, the chance to crawl from the
hard painted bench onto my father's lap, the reverberation of his deep
voice as he translated the program into words a little girl could
understand.

I would have sat through a million games to have just one of those moments.
I stare resolutely at the blue number three on my list. This one needs to
be a little more exotic. But I'm not like Mulder. I don't put everything
out there for the world to see. But this is safe enough, right? No eyes on
this paper but Mulder's.

I scribble a line, fold the paper and turn to him. He is writing madly, his
hair on end as though he's been running his hands through it, his lower lip
firmly clenched between his teeth. When he finishes, he looks up in
triumph.

"Done?" he asks. I nod and hand him my list, take his. I unfold the paper
carefully, half-afraid ofwhat he's written.

**I think this meeting is stupid, pointless, and a waste of our time.**

Ditto. Mark one in the truth column.

**I forgive you for that time you shot me. Just don't do it again.**

This one could go either way. I'm sure he forgives me for the act, but not
for what I prevented him from doing. Certainly, if he'd managed to take out
Krycek then, our lives would have been a bit simpler. But I kept him from
going to prison, so... I think this one might be true as well.

I read the last one, my eyes going wide at his words. Damn you, Mulder, for
bringing this up now, in a room full of strangers.

**Last night was good, but this morning was better.**

I close my eyes against the memory. Oh, yes, last night was good.
Incredible, in fact. But this morning...

It was very early, before dawn, that hour that bridges night and morning
and seems to last forever. I got up to go to the bathroom, and when I came
back he was awake, watching me with hooded eyes. When I crawled under the
sheets, he pulled me close and kissed me, every inch of me. I remember his
mouth on my breast, suckling like I nourished him, my hands tangled in his
hair. It was slow, lazy, unbearably erotic to watch him nibble at my skin,
part my thighs, ease between my legs.

That first moment of joining, the probing, the stretch of muscle and slip
of skin, is my favorite. And he knows it instinctively, taking his sweet
time when he is able to wait. It is the moment that I tell him with my
body--since it is so difficult for me to say the words--how I feel about
him. And the instant he is fully inside me, he always heaves a sigh of such
contentment that I know that all of my feelings are reciprocated,
cherished.

I know that is a vulnerable moment for anyone. It's a time when words slip
out, words that may not hold lasting truth. But Mulder, always so
loquacious and voluble, is surprisingly quiet. He speaks to me with his
hands, his kiss, his racing heart and throbbing sex. And I am free, free to
touch and sip and taste, to control and be controlled. I can be wild, step
over that line I drew for myself long ago. No fear.

I wish that every morning were as sweet and soft and easy as this one. Then
I hear the voices in the room rise and fall, and I slowly return to
reality.

I write, **Not fair. All of yours are true, Mulder. I thought you were
going to play nice. I believe that number 3 especially violates the
doctrine of fairness. AGAIN. And maybe even the one about compassion. But
we'll discuss it later.**

As I hand him the paper, he looks at me curiously. I take the sheet he
passes me, remember what I wrote, and I understand.

**February? Are you sure it's not in April? OK,Scully, point taken. I'll
write it down this year.**

I look at the next one and stifle a laugh.

**Only someone who's been to a shitty game would have such an aversion to
baseball. And you lie badly, Scully, even when you WRITE a lie. Look--this
one is printed and the others are in cursive. You might as well have drawn
a big arrow and written "big fat lie" over it.**

Then I look at the last line. No comments are scrawled next to what I've
written. I look up at him, my eyebrow arched in a question.

"Do you, Scully?" he asks me quietly. I see how much my answer matters to
him--he is perfectly still, so unlike his usual bouncy self. I can feel the
energy radiating from him, and I know that this night will not be an easy
one for either of us.

But he deserves the truth, so I nod once. Relief spreads across his face,
the planes of his face smoothing, softening.

He pulls the paper from my hand. "Can I keep this?" he asks.

"Blackmail, Mulder?"

He runs his fingertips over my words. "Naw. Just one for the record books,
Scully."

I read the words again, accept the truth in them once more, and nod.

Five words. If I had known their power, the freedom they accorded us both,
I would have said them long ago.

I watch him fold the paper, those words the last to disappear from my view.

**I want to believe, too.**