From: Miatsbrown@aol.com
Date: Mon, 12 Jul 1999 20:52:37 EDT
Subject: Typical

Title: 'Typical'
Author: Miatsbrown
Rating: Eh, PG for Krycek with a crush on Mulder and Spender squealing in 
pain and maybe a couple bad words.
Classification: Story/Humor/DOA (dash of angst)
Spoilers: Terma, the last Spender episode arc
Summary: Spender gets rescued, Krycek goes pleasantly insane, Mulder stares 
at the cracks in the ceiling, and Twinkies and vodka abound.
Notes: Thanks as always to Marie who got me started on The X-Files and Mare 
who tried desperately to talk me out of them, to JoJo-Bean-Monkey-Spleen for 
early story advice and to Ted for just being there for me to kick her butt 
and all.  Apologies and homage to Quentin Tarantino for Reservoir Dogs.  
Homage to the snack cake industry for Twinkies.  Apologies to everybody that 
I have no idea in real life about prosthetic arms.  Apologies to everybody in 
general anyway.
 
'Typical' 
by Miatsbrown
Spender walked down the hall feeling empty.  His dreams gone.  His career 
gone.  Very possibly his life gone too.  
     But he had given Mulder back his life, the X-Files, and Jeffrey Spender 
didn't matter that terribly much, he was beginning to find out.  *At least I 
won't have to work with Fowley anymore*  he thought absently.  He took an 
elevator, turned a corner, and found himself at his office door *Mulder's 
door*.  Turned the knob, pushed it open, saw his father.
     His father.
     Shit.
     Words passed between them in a blur.  Jeffrey knew he was in trouble.  
Jeffrey was always in trouble lately.  He saw his father draw a gun.  He knew 
he would die as soon as he saw himself reflected in black in the barrel of 
the gun.  He stared, mesmerized, at himself in the gun until smoke obscured 
his vision and he felt himself fall and he thought to himself *typical* as he 
hit the ground and shattered into a million pieces.

     Krycek walked down the hall, already characteristically quick steps even 
quicker at the sound of the gun shot.  *Like a mother mouse eating its own 
babies* he thought inanely.  He ducked into an adjacent hallway as he saw the 
smoking man leave Mulder's office, then darted out and through the door to 
find a bleeding Spender, silent and still on the floor.
     "Spender? You alive?"  Silent tears tracked down Spender's face.
     "He shot me he shot me oh god I'm gonna die I'm gonna die I'm gonna die. 
. . ."  he spoke quickly but quietly, mumbling broken, incoherent as Krycek 
knelt beside him.
     "Spender. . Jeffrey?" Krycek asked gently, mentally switching to a 
different tack.
     "Krycek?" Spender demanded, grabbing the collar of Krycek's t-shirt in a 
sudden rush of adrenaline.
     "Yeah?" gasped Krycek.
     "What?!" Spender's eyes wild, open wide, an altogether maladjusted air 
about his contorted face.
     "I. . um. . love you?"
     "Oh."  Spender began to cry again, his attention drifting and the pain 
kicking in.
     "Okay. . ." Krycek switched to yet another tack.  "Have you ever been 
shot before, Jeff?"
     "No," Spender shook his head tearfully.
     "Okay. . look, I know it hurts like hell, but a stomach wound takes a 
long time to kill you.  A really long time.  I'm not gonna let you die, okay? 
 I promise, baby." 
     Ignoring the dubious term of endearment, Jeffrey nodded.  Krycek brushed 
sweat from Jeffrey's forehead and leaned down again.
     "Okay, I'm gonna pull you up over my shoulder and carry you.  This is 
gonna hurt, but I have to get you out of here.  Okay, on three."
     At the count Krycek pulled Spender up over and across his shoulders, 
silently blessing modern technology and the mechanized prosthetics it 
entailed.  Spender groaned, loudly, and Krycek could feel Spender's blood 
seeping in at the back of his neck.  He exited the office, drawing his gun.

     Fowley walked down the hall, and was more than slightly surprised by 
what she saw.  A rather attractive dark-haired man was carrying a screaming 
Spender from his office like a sack of potatoes, brandishing a gun.  Fowley 
drew her own gun and jogged down the hall.
     "Stop!" she shouted.  The man spun around, then stopped to face her.
     "Well, well, well, Diana Fowley, I've been wanting to take you down for 
a long time. . . . for my own reasons.  I suggest you get out of my way."
     "I don't know who you are, but you can't take him out of here," Fowley's 
jaw was set, eyes steely.
     The dark man's deadly-looking face broke into a rather goofy grin.  
"Gag, Mulder, but you have the strangest tastes."  Before she even saw it, 
his gun was up and in her face.  Raised eyebrows in a boyish face mocked her. 
 Spender moaned.  All was silent.
     "I work for the same guy you work for," Fowley ground out.
     "Do not," said the man.  Fowley struggled with his arm, shocked suddenly 
that it was not human.  She looked into his face in horror.
     "Jeez, for an international spy, you don't hide things well," he 
observed, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.  She recovered herself enough to 
pull up her gun, but he put his down instead and shot her in the leg.  She 
hit the ground, clutching her thigh frantically.  Krycek beat a hasty retreat 
down the hallway.
     Right into Mulder's waiting arms.
     "Krycek.  Fancy meeting you here."
     "Mulder," gasped the winded triple-quadruple-whatever agent.  Mulder 
drew his gun.  Krycek's face fell like a child who just found out the truth 
about Santa Claus.
     "Mulder, please, let me go.  You know it's the only way he's gonna 
survive.  I really don't want to shoot you," Krycek's voice was pleading, 
almost whining.  
     *Huh.  I never noticed that facial tic he gets when he's mad.  It's 
kinda cute* Krycek's thoughts absently strayed as he awaited a life-or-death 
decision from his former partner.  After a tense moment, Mulder holstered his 
gun.
     "Okay," he said simply.  Strangely, Krycek was suddenly loathe to leave. 
      
     *What, that's it, no sweeping moral generalizations on what a rat 
bastard I am? Hmmm.*  Finally, grasping at straws, "Fowley's down the hall.  
I shot her.  I didn't kill her, just got her in the leg to slow her down.  
Sorry," he said with a flippant grin.
     "Not at all," said Mulder cryptically.
     "I'm intrigued," said Krycek with an eyebrow-movement that left Mulder 
feeling less-than-fresh.  "We'll discuss this later. . . . " with that he 
trailed off down the hall with Spender moaning all the way.
     *Typical day* thought Mulder before turning back the way he came.

     The car trip had been taxing on both kill and keeper, and Krycek let out 
an exasperated sigh as he dropped Spender as gently as possible on the 
hardwood floor of the old restored house that was his hideout.  Jeffrey was 
mumbling things not coherent out the corner of his mouth, and Krycek paused 
to consider the situation.
     *Hmmm.  EMT training, don't fail me now.*
     It failed him, as usual.
     *Fine, I'll wing it then.*
     He picked up Spender again with some chagrin and not a little vocal 
protestation and laid him on the kitchen table.  He ripped open Spender's 
shirt and pants to look at the wound, and Spender chose that exact moment to 
become lucid again.
     "My life should have a laugh track," mumbled Krycek inanely.  Spender, 
meanwhile, was eying him with Bambi-In-The-Headlights eyes, mouth open and 
O-shaped.
     "Don't get your jockies in a bunch," Krycek addressed the distressed 
agent.  "I'm not that kind of girl.  Actually, I am, but don't worry anyway." 
 Spender's head fell back on the table.
     "Oww," quoth Spender whinily.  Krycek rolled his eyes heavenward.  
Meanwhile, Spender's eyes had glazed over and he had resumed his murmurings.
     "Oh my god I'm gonna die he shot me and I'm gonna die mom where are you 
oh god oh god. . ."  Krycek gently, then not so gently slapped Spender to get 
him to respond.
     "Listen, boy  *god, I've always wanted to say that, look ma, I'm 
Skinner!* you're gonna be fine.  Here, uh, here, look at this. . " Krycek 
fumbled with his t-shirt and pulled it up slightly to reveal at least four 
distinguishably distinct scars.  "Look.  I got shot like four, five different 
times in the stomach, and I'm alive.  You're gonna be fine, now just lie 
back.  It hurts like hell, I know, but you're gonna be fine, babe, I 
promised, remember?"  Jeff finally looked him in the eye.
     "Babe?" he croaked pathetically.
     "I'm trying to be reassuring.  Gimme a break."  Krycek walked away from 
the table to reach into a cabinet for some very strong whiskey.
     "I'm gonna have to take the bullet out, okay?"  he said gently, shifting 
back into competent medical-type mode.  "I don't exactly have any anesthetic, 
so I'm gonna get you fucking wasted, okay?"
     "'Kay," Jeff said meekly.  Krycek propped him up in form Florence 
Nightingale would have been proud of, and put the whiskey to his lips.  While 
Jeff accustomed himself to the unaccustomed burning sensation *you really are 
a fucking prude Jeff* Krycek put the bottle to his own lips and took a drink. 
 *Let's see if we can do this, Alex-boy.  Let's see if you're more than just 
another pretty face in front of another slightly damaged mind*.  He left the 
bottle to Jeffrey and set about boiling the necessary tools for this 
expedition into the wonderful world of Jeff Spender's abdomen.  These 
obviously weren't the most sterile of conditions, but they would have to do.
     A half hour's time saw Jeffrey mumbling a different kind of incoherent 
and the knife, needle, and string boiled.  Krycek whipped out a pair of latex 
gloves *why do I have these in my kitchen?*  and took the knife in steady 
hands *God bless modern technology*.  He divested Jeff of the booze and then, 
deeming it best to continue without warning, plunged right in.  Jeff screamed 
and Krycek pulled back immediately.  Mercifully, Jeff passed out, which was 
exactly what Krycek had in mind.  He then went about his work unmolested, his 
mind, as usual, wandering, this time to doctors who left their keys inside 
patients.  Then to Scully *Scully would know what to do.  For chrissakes, I 
got that 'stomach- wounds-take-a-really-long-time-to-kill-you' thing from 
'Reservoir Dogs'.  Quentin Tarantino, don't fail me now.  Speaking of 
failure, for God's sake, I was an EMT, I should know this shit.  I guess my 
memory left with the rest of my mind.  Typical.  I'd really like Twinkies and 
vodka right now.  Smoky shot his own kid.  Don't know why I'm surprised.  
Yeah, Twinkies and vodka.  Maybe I'll go see Mulder later, if Jeff lives.  
Oh, shit, Jeff. . . .*

     Jeffrey opened his eyes slowly.  He knew he should be in horrible pain, 
but he wasn't aware of that just yet. He felt instead the cool kiss of cotton 
sheets, and, cliched as might be, he wanted to cry at the joy of it.  He 
tilted his head slightly to the side and looked out an open window.  It was 
dark, and raining softly, but he could still see, the sky a strange 
yellow-gray color that portended a thunderstorm.  He tilted his head the 
other way and saw Krycek, asleep in an overstuffed armchair by his side, head 
back, mouth open, snoring ever-so-slightly.  He shifted a bit, and the bed 
creaked, which woke Krycek abruptly.  Krycek's almost intimidating face broke 
into an endearingly crooked grin.
     "I told you you'd be fine, you silly bitch," Krycek said in relief, 
ruffling Jeff's hair, no easy task considering how short it was.  Jeff tried 
to sit up, but Krycek stopped him.  "Don't, you'll tear your stitches."  Very 
carefully, Krycek helped him sit up and lean back on the pillows.  Jeff 
looked around.  Country-looking and -smelling bedroom, battered bookshelves, 
bowl of fruit, worn quilt.  Way too vanilla to be Krycek, but Krycek 
nonetheless.  Then again, he knew nothing about Krycek.  He was making a 
judgment.  He should know not to assume anything anymore.  Typical Jeffrey, 
holding on to old things stubborn and afraid of change.  

     Krycek watched Jeff's face carefully. Howls of pain aside, he hadn't 
changed expression since he'd rescued him.  *There's only room for one of us 
to be snapped, boy, and I'm already gone*
    "Are you hungry?" Krycek asked instead.  Jeff nodded tentatively.
     "Pizza?"  Jeff's face clouded.
     "What if. . . ."
     "What if what?" Krycek asked, amused.
     "What if they traced us here and they. . . "
     ". . . send the pizza delivery boy of death?  Not likely.  I've got 
things taken care of, Jeff, it's okay," Krycek said, mockingly but not 
unkindly.
     "I can't believe he shot me," Jeff said, quietly, staring at the rain.
     "I know," Krycek said.  He slowly, awkwardly put an arm about Jeffrey's 
shoulders and felt him fairly collapse in his arms, felt hot tears on his 
neck as Jeffrey cried.  He kissed Jeffrey's temple, gently.  Jeffrey looked 
at him and smiled, dirt brown eyes meshed with clear green.
     "Look, " Krycek said, suddenly businesslike for the first time probably 
ever, "I'm gonna order you something, then there's someone I have to see.  I 
promise, I won't be too long, but I have to do this.  Okay?"  Jeff nodded in 
resignation.  Krycek picked up the phone.
     "You want pepperoni on your death-pizza?"

     Mulder sat heavily down on his couch.  It had been a weird day at work, 
but frankly, he'd had weirder, and he was running out of things to think 
about on the existential level when he came home to his empty apartment, to 
his fish tank and the cracks in the ceiling and the bugs in the walls.  
Typical.
     He'd actually taken to talking to them.  He knew they were probably 
still there, but while it was a deplorable invasion of privacy, he knew the 
person watching him had to be even more bored than he was.
     A knock at the door summoned him from his reverie.  He walked over and 
opened it to reveal one Alex Krycek, soaked to the skin and smiling like an 
idiot.
     "Is Spender alive?" Mulder asked immediately.
     "Not here," Krycek said, still grinning.  "Shall we go for a walk?"
Mulder sighed.  "It's raining," he said in something suspiciously like a 
whine.
     "Yes," said Krycek stoically.  "Yes it is."  Mulder sighed and grabbed a 
jacket.

     Outside, it was far too warm for that jacket, even the wind that had 
whipped up with the storm warm and balmy.  The rain, however, felt 
unpleasantly cold to Mulder as he walked beside his silent companion, silent 
himself.  Krycek seemed oblivious.  While Mulder avoided puddles, piously 
keeping his feet dry, Krycek went out of his way to walk through them.
     "Krycek. . . are you all right?" Mulder asked after awhile.  There was 
something he couldn't quite put his scientifically trained finger on, but 
that the layman's section of his mind had already put down to the fact that 
Krycek had gone off the deep end at some point along the way.
    "Yeah, why shouldn't I be," Krycek answered, though not sharply at all, 
in that voice that felt like some kind of wonderful sandpaper to Mulder's 
mind.
     "Look, I can't stay long, I need to get back to Spender, but. . . I 
don't know, I just kinda wanted to say hi," Krycek finally said, stopping at 
the sidewalk for traffic.
     "So Spender is alive," Mulder said thoughtfully.  "You wanted to say 
hi?" he repeated, registering mild shock, stopping mid-step.  Krycek nodded, 
rain dripping off his nose and eyes and mouth and suddenly making Mulder want 
to throw a blanket around him and take him home.  *stop it stop it stop it 
this is why mom never let you have a dog it's just typical Krycek you're 
horny as hell and he's messing with your head*
    Krycek moved away from the curb at last and sat on a bench at the side of 
the street.  Mulder followed him and sat beside him, bench cold against his 
ass.  Krycek seemed not to care, seemed not affected at all.
    "Mulder. . . something happened to me in Russia. . "
     "I know about your arm," Mulder broke in quietly.
     "I know you know," Krycek said, waving his right hand dismissively.   
"And I got a new prosthetic, I can use it, it's almost as good as a real 
hand.  But no, something else happened.  In the hospital, when I could 
finally get out of bed. . and I saw it in the mirror. . . I kind of. . . 
broke."
     Mulder nodded, psychologist kicking in, but silent still.
     "I started laughing.  I couldn't stop laughing, it was just. . I mean, 
it sounds stupid, but I found it really truly funny.  I always used to joke 
around and say I was cursed, all the bad shit that happens to me, you know.  
Yeah, so anyway," he said, coming back, "I laughed, I cried, I threw up. . 
isn't that from a movie somewhere.. . ?  Oh, well, not surprised, my memory's 
going too. . . ." Krycek started trailing off, looking at his left hand, 
gloved in leather to hide inhuman metal.
     Mulder was silent, regarding his felon.  Then, he put an arm around 
Krycek's shaking shoulders.  Krycek looked down and gave a kind of laugh and 
smile.
     "What made you save Spender?" Mulder asked gently, at last.
     "I'm coming to that," Krycek said, nodding.  "I felt the overwhelming 
urge to. . . well, not necessarily do good but to do something they wouldn't 
expect from me, something that would mess with their heads as much as they 
messed with mine, something not typical, something to piss them off.  Not 
'them' really. . just the one guy.  Jeff is so young, so naive, so. . . ."
     "He reminds you of you," Mulder, so quiet, so gentle.
     Krycek's head snapped up.  "Me? No, no, not at all, never me.  He's 
just. . . he's innocence embodied in someone who's annoying and anal and 
somebody I could learn to hate, but innocence nonetheless and I couldn't 
watch him be destroyed by that man."
     "Shot down my theory," said Mulder, leaning back in relative surprise.
     "Sorry," Krycek said, eyes all dewey innocence and liquid shimmer from 
under rain-wet lashes.  *he did that on purpose* Mulder thought, annoyed.  He 
just looked at him, quietly evaluating thief and murderer and maybe friend.
     "I should get back to Spender," Krycek said, standing up.
     "Do you want to dry off first?" asked Mulder, panicked at the fact that 
he was panicked at the fact that Alex Krycek was leaving him for Jeffrey 
Spender.  Maybe Krycek wasn't the only insane one.
     "Do you want to come with me?" countered Krycek without missing a beat.
     "Yes," said Mulder, equally quickly.  Krycek smiled, leaned forward, and 
before Mulder saw it coming, kissed him on the mouth, lips closed, sweet, 
warm fleeting contact.  Krycek pulled out a cell phone and called his house.

     Spender tentatively picked up the phone as Krycek's voice yelled at him 
to do so through the answering machine.
     "Hello?'
     "Spender?" Krycek sounded happy, for some reason.
     "Yeah?"
     "You mind if Mulder comes over?"
     "Uhh. .. . no?  Of course not."
     "'Kay, see you in fifteen minutes."  Yes, he could hear the grin in 
Krycek's voice.
     "Oh, did you eat the pizza yet?"
     "Yes," said Jeff.
     "And you're not dead?"
     "No."

     "Pizza of death my ass," said Krycek as he ended the phone call.  Mulder 
didn't care anymore. Krycek might be insane, but he was turning out to be 
good company.  They turned the block in amiable silence and Mulder opened the 
door of his car to the wet and now-shivering Krycek.  Mulder got into the 
driver's seat and turned on the ignition.  Before he pulled out, however, he 
turned to Krycek impulsively.
     "Krycek. . . can I see it?  Your arm, I mean."
Krycek's face fell for a moment, then, returned to its usual unreadable state.
     "Um, sure, I guess."
Krycek shrugged out of his leather jacket and pulled up the sleeve of the 
t-shirt he was wearing, showing Mulder where metal met flesh.  It looked like 
something out of science fiction.
     "That is the coolest fucking thing I've ever seen in my life," said 
Mulder with a kid-in-a-candy-shop grin.
Krycek sighed happily and leaned back against the headrest.  *Mulder not 
repulsed by arm, Spender alive, pizza of death delivered to house. . . *  
Suddenly remembering something, Krycek touched Mulder's arm lightly.
   "What?"
    "Can we stop for Twinkies and vodka?"

THE END