Title: Faded Photographs
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Michael Cutter
Fandom: Doctor Who/Law & Order
Rating: R
Table: 100_tales
Prompt: 20, Grey
Author's Note: Prequel to Barrel of A Gun. Spoilers for the Law & Order episode By Perjury.
Warning: ongoing story, past non-con
Disclaimer: This is entirely a product of my own imagination, and I make no profit from it. I do not own the Tenth Doctor or Michael Cutter, unfortunately. Please do not sue.

***

Michael leaned back against the soft cushions of the couch in Jack's office, closing his eyes. He had to resist the urge to curl up in the cushions, wanting to lose himself in them. But he couldn't do that; he had to keep up the facade of being strong.

He had to pretend that he wasn't as affected by what had just nearly happened to him as he really was. Inside, he was quaking, trembling, feeling as though he was on the edge of a breakdown. All he wanted to do was crawl into a hole and pull it down after him.

On the outside, he was calm, managing a smile when Lupo and Bernard had repeatedly asked him if he ws all right. He'd refused to let them take him to the emergency room, insisting that he just needed a drink and then he'd be fine.

In truth, he could barely get words to come out. Hell, he could barely get those words to form in his mind. All he could think of was that he'd almost died tonight -- and in an incredibly ignoble way. That would have been horribly embarrassing.

Not that he would have cared, considering that he wouldn't know, he thought wryly -- but the DA's office wouldn't be too please. And it would be one hell of a legacy to leave behind him as a remembrance, that he'd died with his pants down and his cock out in the bathroom.

It hadn't happened, he reminded himself. He was still here, albeit shaken up, and the man who'd tried to kill him was in prison -- where he belonged. Now he could be charged with attempted murder as well as the felonies he'd been convicted of.

Though he himself definitely wasn't going to be trying that case. He didn't want to see that bastard again; he'd seen enough of the hatred glaring at him from those steely eyes over the barrel of the gun the man had practically shoved into his face.

Strangely enough, it hadn't been himself that he was thinking about when he'd looked down the barrel of that gun and thought that his life was ending there and then. All he'd been able to think about was John, and how his death would affect his boyfriend.

What would John's reaction be when Lupo and Bernard showed up at his apartment door and told him that the man he was involved with had been murdered? Michael thought he knew John well enough to know what he might do.

He could picture his lover's face; the stunned disbelief, then the outpouring of grief. That was what he couldn't bear thinking about; the fact that John would be destroyed to lose someone he loved. He didn't want to be the cause of that kind of pain.

He'd gleaned enough from what his boyfriend had told him about his past to know that John had lost people close to him; maybe not lovers, but people he'd cared about a great deal. And he knew how sensitive John was.

Thank goodness it hadn't happened, Michael told himself for what seemed like the hundredth time. His murder had been averted, thanks to Lupo and Bernard's vigilance. He couldn't thank them enough -- and he was sure that John would be grateful, too.

It was going to be hard to tell his lover about what had nearly happened. He knew that John would more than likely be frantic, wanting to be sure that he was all right, that he was properly taken care of; he'd probably expect Michael to stay home from the office for a few days.

But he couldn't do that. He couldn't let this affect his work; if he did, then the bastard would have won, at least partially. He couldn't let himself be intimidated. He didn't let it happen in the courtroom, and he wasn't going to let it happen in his personal life, either.

He could still see the mental images crystal-clear in his mind's eye -- the gun pointing at him, the glint of hatred and victory in those psychotic eyes that had peered at him. And the images of John's face, the only thing he'd been able to concentrate on.

He hadn't seen his life flashing before his eyes, as so many people claimed to when they thought the end was near. All he'd been able to see was John. John laughing, John sleeping next to him, John lying in his arms after they'd made love.

Those mental images had been like a series of photographs, bright and clear in his inner vision. The images of the gun, the hatred directed at him, everything other than John had seemed like snapshots in sepia, faded photographs that would never take on a life of their own.

The only thing that had seemed real to him in those moments was John -- and what he felt for hte other man. The love he carried in his heart for John had welled up inside him and threatened to spill out in his last moments, for all the world to see.

Everything else had faded into the background, pushed to the far corners of his mind by the overwhelming sense of love and regret. Love for the man who dominated his mind and his heart, and regret that he'd never told John exactly how he felt.

It had almost been too late. He'd almost let their lives fade to grey, the photographs in his mind fading away and the light blinking out on them, without having the chance to tell John that he was loved. But he'd been granted a reprieve.

He had to make the most of that, and go home to John. But he was still feeling too unsettled to do so; he needed to take a little while longer before he'd feel steady enough to get into his car and drive back to the parking garage by his apartment building.

John would be there, waiting for him. John Smith. The man he loved. The man he adored and wanted to spend the rest of his life with. How was it that he'd never said those words to John, never let him know what he felt in his heart?

Well, he'd say those words tonight. He would go home and tell John what had nearly happened to him -- though he wasn't sure that he would tell the other man about his epiphany, realizing that he was truly in love for the first time in his life.

He couldn't help feeling guilty that he would be keeping that from his lover, but he didn't want John to think that it had taken something like this to make him realize his own feelings. It wasn't a lie, not really. The feeling had always been there.

It had just taken a life-changing experience like this to bring them to the forefront of his mind, to make him see that love for what it was. Those feelings had been the faded photographs before tonight, there in his mind but not taking a front and center position in his thoughts.

Now, his feelings for John had blossomed; they were all that was on his mind. He hadn't thought about himself when he'd believed he was going to die -- the only thing that had mattered to him was that the man he loved wouldn't feel too much pain at his passing.

All he'd cared about was how John would feel when he was gone. It hadn't occurred to him to think about what he was leaving behind, what he hadn't done in his life, the regrets that he had. All he'd been able to see and feel was John and what his love would do without him.

If that wasn't love, what was? It had been selfless, focused on John rather than on himself. Everything else had seemed grey and lifeless, other than the image in his mind of John's face when he heard the news. That had been enough to break his heart.

Michael took a deep breath, sitting up straighter on the couch. He was feeling more steady now; he could make it out to the car and drive home. Jack had wanted him to go to the hospital, but he'd refused; he would be all right if he could just sit down and relax.

He couldn't really do that here. No, he needed to be at home, with John in his arms. He needed to tell his lover just what he felt, show him how much he was loved and needed. He should have done that a long time ago, before it had almost been too late.

Getting to his feet, he stretched experimentally, realizing that he didn't feel stiff, even though he'd sat there for over an hour. He really was all right, just shaken. Once he was back at home with the man he loved, he'd feel much better.

A smile crossed his face as he headed for Jack's office to tell him that he was leaving. It would be good to get home -- and to have someone he was eager to be with once he got there.

***