Title: Kaiein
Author: Sin
Email: sin@darkmage.net
Pairing: M/K [Krycek's POV]
Rating: PG-13. Implied M/M and some of the language and Australian spelling warnings.
Spoilers: Up to and including Existence.
Archive: You want it, just let me know.
Feedback: I grovel in your general direction.
Thanks: K and Bertie for the beta.
Disclaimers: Their collars have Ten-Thirteen and Fox on them, but I found them wandering round homeless, so I'm going to keep them *g*
Notes: Another title from Greek meaning, to burn.


Cause I am hanging on every word you're saying
Even if you don't wanna speak tonight
That's alright, alright with me
Cause I want nothing more than to sit outside of your door
And listen to you breathing
Its where I wanna be, yeah
   Breathing - Lifehouse

Breath in.

Breath out.

Such a simple little autonomic reflex.

Breath in.

Breath out.

All it takes is a bullet or nice sharp stilleto to the back of the neck, just so, and it passes through the brainstem and takes out the controlling mechanism for that simple little function. No more exchange of gases to keep your blood flowing red and oxygenated, heart failure and brain death quickly following due to the simple cessation of your breathing. It's amazingly easy.

Breath in.

There are so many ways to kill a man. From the expediency of breaking a neck, to the elegance of a precisely thrust blade through ribs into the heart, to the agony of a gut shot that perforates liver and soft tissue, to the desperation of asphyxiation. We don't realise how incredibly fragile the human body can be. All it takes is one mistake, one wrong move, one wrong alliance and you will find yourself bleeding your life away whilst Death stands over you and laughs at your foolishness.

Breath out.

I look at him and I see the body that I have lusted after, the now quiescent mind and quixotic personality I have loved for so many years overlaid with a network of all the vulnerable points that I could utilitise to end his life. Like a Braille map, it tempts my fingers to find those weaknesses, to watch him realise the danger that he's put himself into by letting me get this close. I want to see the fear in his eyes.

Breath in.

I could take him so easily. Pin him down and use my knife on him. Or my gun. I wonder how he would look as he died. Would he be terrified? Or would he get that strangely abstracted expression, as if he's looking off into the distance at something that no one else can see? It's tempting, oh so tempting, to put thoughts into actions. All it would take is a couple of moves.

Breath out.

I wonder sometimes what happened to the remorse that I used to feel, the guilt for taking a human life, for creating that look of terror in my victim's eyes before I killed them. It just burned away, like all my hopes, my family, my friends. They're all gone, just like my ability to regret the actions I have taken just to keep myself alive. I didn't have the luxury for those kind of feelings. I couldn't have them and still be able to do the job that I had to do. Where before I used to dream, now I'm caught in a living nightmare and sometimes I wonder if I will ever break free of it.

Breath in.

Even he can't break through the walls that I have erected around myself, even though I wish he could. He lies there so peacefully, breathing in and breathing out, with not a care in the world, lost in the arms of Morpheus, dreaming the dreams of the just and righteous. How I wish I could be him, how I wish I could have that certainty that what I'm doing is the right thing.

Breath out.

Even though I may think the thoughts, be tempted to follow through on them, to gutter the flame of that passionate soul that lurks, even in sleep, behind those closed lids, I know I'll never do it. I can't. Because to kill him would be to kill the last piece remaining of my own self. He's all that I'm not, all that I can't afford to be. I love him, resent him, desire him and, sometimes, even hate him, but for all my morbid thoughts, I could never really hurt him.

Breath in.

It's a strange thing to say, a strange thing to think considering the fact he's six feet or so of masculine muscle and sinew, but he's fragile. You can hurt him physically, bruise his flesh and shatter his bones, but you won't break him. All you'll do is make him stronger. The physical world is not his weakness. His weakness lies in the mental, the emotional ties that link him to the people around him and to his own thoughts. Break the mind, you break the man.

Breath out.

He's been so mentally bruised. It's almost like you can see the contusions on his soul within the shadows of his eyes. But he's healing, it's a slow journey, but he's doing it. It's taken him a while to get here, to come to terms with all that's happened in the past few years. But now, he's looking forward for the first time in his life instead of looking back.

Breath in.

I would have thought that would bring him peace, but it's only seems to have brought him more questions, more unresloved issues that haunt him still. I wish that whoever it is that controls our fates would just give him a break for once - he's lost so much, suffered so much, and it taken him to the edge. I think the fact that he's able to sleep is a sign that he's slowly stepping away from the precipice, but it could also mean that he is slipping towards something, a darkness, that I don't know if I can pull him out of.

Breath out.

They always say that everyone looks different when they're sleeping. With him it's true, though it depends on the type of sleep he's fallen into. He can either look as peaceful as a child with nary a care in the world, all the lines smoothed away, his lips slightly parted and kissable or he can look haunted and harried as his fears and worries chase him across his nightscape.

Breath in.

Tonight he looks peaceful. It's been a long time since I've seen him like this. The world has been a hard place recently and not even the baby has been enough to snap him out of his brooding. I want to take those cares away from him, but he's stubborn and doesn't want any help. So I just stay by him and try and help with just my presence. I'm sure he'll tell me what's bothering him when he's ready, though I think I can probably guess.

Breath out.

I wonder at the dreams that bring that small smile to his lips. They must be good ones, because he hasn't been restless for the last couple of hours. That's a good thing, especially when you sleep as lightly as I do. Plus, it's given me the chance to curl around him, to lie so close next to him that I can feel his warmth and be able to wrap myself in the night musk smell of him. These are the kind of nights that make me thankful for my continued existence.

Breath in.

I'd really like to touch him, but I don't want to wake him. He deserves his sleep, he deserves this retreat from the everyday cares that have been wearing on him. I can still indulge in one of my favourite pastimes though, one that will not disturb his rest, but it's one that will bring me the sense of peace that I have searched so long for and only found when I invited myself into his bed. I can lie here and listen to him breathe.

Breath out.

It's such a simple thing, breathing. Without it we can't live, laugh or talk, and without them we can't live, love or argue. You know, I think that arguing with Mulder should rank up there as being one of the most erotic things about him. It's probably sounds trite, but I do actually love him for his mind. That deeply warped and twisted piece of biological machinery is one of the most amazing things about him. And, to me, it's one of the sexiest.

Breath in.

I am continually amazed by the way his mind works, how his expression lightens or darkens depending on his conversation, the play of enthusiasm and frustration that flickers across his face. You'd think that his voice would be dull, boring, given that monotone of his but I think it only helps to emphasis the keenness of his intellect, the erudition of his arguments.

Breath out.

I could sit and listen to him talk for hours. I have sat and listened to him talk for hours. I don't care if it's not to me that he is talking, it could be Scully, himself or even the tv, just as long as I can sit there and listen to him as well. Sometimes I feel like a dog at his master's feet, but I've never been what you could call tame, so that's probably not the best analogy. Maybe an acolyte at the feet of a master.

Breath in.

Sometimes I sit there and wish that we hadn't wasted so much time believing we were on opposite sides of the fight. We could have spent that time together instead of always being at loggerheads. I guess we make up for it now, but it's not the same and it doesn't take away the regret for all that unnecessary bitterness and hatred.

Breath out.

But there are times when the rage wells inside of me. What right did he have to rain his hail of fists and feet upon me? To get out of Tunguska whole while I was left to relearn tasks I'd mastered as a young child? I was only doing my job, just like he was doing his. This is where the hatred pools, the bitterness that makes me wish that he had been the one to live through the fear and pain instead of me.

Breath in.

But if wishes were horses beggars would ride, right? I don't know what I want. I'm so conflicted. Love, hate, desire, obsession - they're all flipsides of each other and I'm the one left balancing on the knife's edge not knowing which way to fall or even if I want to fall at all.

Breath out.

But then I see him like this and I feel that spot inside, that place that I've somehow managed to hold on to in spite of all the horrors and all the lies, soften. Like the first day that I ever saw him, he takes my breath away. Everything about him calls to me. He's my flame and I, the moth, more than ready to sacrifice myself for the pyre of his touch, his kiss.

Breath in.

I can't help myself. I don't touch him, but I let my hand slowly trace the line of bicep and forearm with only the merest gap between. I can feel the heat of his skin, humid with the faint dampness that accompanies his sleep and I crave the freedom to be able to taste it, to watch it sheen to a higher gloss as I use my talents to raise his body temperature.

"Alex." It's a quiet whisper, a murmur of sound on a soft exhalation, as he shifts in his sleep.

I want so much to be able to snuff out his life, to kill him and watch that awareness of reality bleed away, just as he watched it happen to me. I want it so badly. Guess being non-corporeal has its upside. I'm not really sure if I'd be able to stop myself if I could touch him. I might want, but I can't have. Story of my life. He's not meant for this plane, not yet, but I don't want to have to wait. I just want him here with me. I'm lonesome and I don't like being here by myself.

I guess I'd better get used to waiting.

Wish I could touch him though.


Archived: January 11, 2002