A/N: So, welcome to a newly revamped version of Impossible to Deny. The original version was written over a year ago, and a recent review made me revamp the story, after claiming that I was stealing from the episode Broken Rules. While I don't believe that the term "stealing" was accurate, I did rewrite the fic, and this is the new version, which I like better and feel better fits my original intentions of getting into Michael's head. Enjoy, and review if you'd like to let me know how I did.
Disclaimer: I don't own Burn Notice. The scene around which the fic is based is the end of the episode Broken Rules, with Michael and Fiona's fight.
Impossible to Deny
You'd think that Michael Westen would have learned, by now, that what Fiona wants, Fiona gets. He's sure as hell been around her enough to know that she has this magnetism, this pull that is absolutely impossible to deny.
It's not that she's particularly charming; she's too tough and harsh to be charming. She's demanding and she's pushy; she's bossy, she'll kick your ass without a second thought, and she's so determined. Maybe that's what makes her impossible: her determination. Once she gets that gleam in her eye she can't be stopped. She's like a terrier. Once she sinks her teeth into something she'll shake it about and won't let go until she has exactly what she wants.
Michael has had plenty of practice in not giving in. He's just not the kind of person who folds inwards and gives in when push comes to shove. He rolls with the punches but when something means something to him he fights for it. He does not give in, not to anyone.
Anyone except Fiona.
He'd never admit it, but he loves when she barges into his apartment like she owns the place. He's not too crazy about the fact that she wants to "talk" though. Talking with Fiona usually means that someone ends up hurt.
He knows that she wants explanations. He listens as she asks him Is this going anywhere?.
And he doesn't know what to say.
For some reason, he never knows what to say to her.
In a moments notice Michael Westen can transform himself into a suave debonair, a smooth aristocrat, a street thug, a hick in way over his head. He knows all the right things to say to an irate drug lord or mob boss; he knows how to talk himself into—and out of—a hundred situations, and he knows what to do when he can't talk himself out of trouble. He can put on a hundred different accents, become a hundred different people.
But he can't explain himself to her.
The moment Fiona walks into a room and looks him in the eye and demands to know he finds himself speechless, the words sticking in his throat, choking him.
The funny thing is, he couldn't explain it, even if he wanted to.
He watches her shift into fight mode. She sweeps her hair up into a ponytail, out of her face. She strips her watch off, places it on the table. He's watched this transformation dozens of times. And he knows what's going to happen if—when—he can't explain.
He tries to explain, tries to get her to remember what it was like when they were together. The scars on his chest—Dublin, Germany—are vivid reminders. He knows that she remembers. He can see it in her eyes, the reflection of those memories. Those days had too much pain, too much sorrow, too much anger, and not even what they had, whatever it was, had been strong enough.
He sees in her eyes the mornings when she woke up to an empty house, knowing immediately that he was gone, knowing that he had left without a single word, without a single hint, knowing that he wasn't coming back.
He knows that he can't do that to her again. He has no intention of staying in Miami any longer than he has to, and he can't play this game again. He can't whisper things to her, hold her, make promises, and then disappear.
He doesn't know who it would hurt more.
And he can't quite figure out which one of them he is trying to protect.
He watches as she approaches him, too aware of the diminishing space between them. She bats her eyes at him and asks him a question that makes him want to scream.
So you wanna be with someone else?
The last thing he wants to do is be with someone else. He doesn't want anyone in his life, but if he had to choose it would be Fiona, hands down. He can't imagine being with anyone else and he doesn't want to try to imagine. It's Fiona or it's nothing.
So it's nothing. It has to be.
His life is too dangerous, especially right now. He thinks of what Bly had said, about former partners who wanted to hurt Fiona. He knows that she is his weakness, and so does everyone else. He also knows that Fiona can take care of herself, and that she doesn't want to be protected.
But he couldn't live with himself if she got hurt because of him.
Sometimes, watching Fiona when she doesn't notice, he wonders what might have happened if he had never become what he is. If he never became a spy, would he be able to take her in his arms and tell her that he loves her? Would he stay in one place, with a house and a wife and family?
And then he remembers that he isn't the white-picket fence kind of person. And neither is Fiona. They would both be bored out of their mind, and Fiona would never dream of a life without explosions or broken bones or gunshots. She's an adrenaline junkie, just as much as he is, maybe more.
White-pickets fences wouldn't work for them.
If he hadn't become a spy, he never would have met her.
He doesn't think that he could live like that.
He tries to put his thoughts into words. No one could make him happier. But it can't happen and he won't allow it, and he knows that isn't good enough. He's only a matter of inches away from her. He has memories of the feel of her skin against his, of the taste. His every sense buzzes when she is around. It's a heady feeling, one that he could too easily lose himself in.
He watches her face, knowing what's coming.
The fight starts, quick and violent in true Fiona fashion. She wants to hurt him as much as she can, and he just wants her to stop. She plays fierce offense, and he just tries to defend. It's a little like sitting in a house as a hurricane bears down, hoping that the plywood you nailed over the windows will hold.
His instincts, trained into him, don't care that the person attacking him is Fiona. His fist lashes out against his will and hits her jaw, sending her backwards. Guilt shoots through him. It's not as though he's never hit her before—their relationships always involve fighting, and she usually does more damage to him than he does to her—but he never wants to hurt her.
And when she turns back to him, her eyes glittering, he knows he's in trouble.
Trying to talk some sense into her, trying to stop her before she strikes again, is like trying to stop a force of nature. She breaks out of a headlock and slams her legs into him, dropping him to the ground. He reaches an arm out to her, palm out.
She takes his hand, almost as though she were going to help him up. He knows she's not. He knows what is about to happen and his words run together as he tries to prevent it.
She leans down and kisses his palm, her smooth lips grazing over his skin, sending shivers up his spine. That's right before she bends his fingers backwards at an impossible angle, forcing him to his feet.
He doesn't want to hurt her, but damn it, he's not going to take much more of this.
She circles him, smirking, and in moments he has her in an almost embrace, aside from the fact that his hands are holding her arms in place.
Her face moves towards him and his head jerks to the side.
He knows this game of hers, and he's not going to fall for it.
He's not giving in.
She's done this to him before, the intentional antagonizing, the intentional fighting, where her aim is to hurt and his is to protect himself. He's not going to hit her, even though he could, and she knows he won't. She's counting on it. But what she really wants isn't to hurt him at all.
What she really wants is something that he's not going to give her.
It seems as though he blinks and she is on top of him, straddling him. His around her throat, as though he is about to strangle her, but he never would. Her fingers slide up to caress his cheek, her hands soft. There's no space between them any more.
Her lips hover over his and he flips her, pinning her to the ground. The look in her eyes is defiant, but more than that it is wanting.
He wonders if the same emotions reflect in his eyes.
He can't do this. He can't get involved with her, not again. He can't give in.
His hand, of its own accord, moves to touch her cheek.
It's too late to pretend that he hasn't lost.
His lips are upon hers.
It was like this before, the first time, the next time, every time. She's in his arms and he's in hers and he forgets all about what he should and should not do. Trying to resist her is like trying to defy gravity, something that he is completely incapable of doing.
To him, despite whatever he says, whatever he tries, Fiona is impossible to deny. What she wants is hers, and what she wants, more than anything, is him.
And Fiona always gets what she wants.
Even if Michael doesn't realize it, he belongs to her.