Disclaimer: Burn Notice belongs to Matt Nix.

So, this is my first ever Burn Notice fic. I usually write for "Castle" or "Perception", but I am catching up on the seasons and I thought that I needed to end the fact that I hadn't written for this show.

"Just another perfect mistake,

Just another bridge to take on the way to letting go.

This ain't goodbye, this is just where loves goes

When words aren't warm enough to keep away the cold.

Oh, no, this ain't goodbye, it's not where our story ends.

I know you can't be mine, not the way you've always been.

As long as we've got time,

Then this ain't goodbye."

- "This Ain't Goodbye" by Train

Michael grunted as his fists connected with the canvas of the punching bag for, what seemed like, the thousandth time since he'd returned to the loft. Sweat streamed down his bare chest until it soaked into the waistband of his black shorts. His muscles quivered as he worked to suppress the memories of the day. He and Fiona had had fights before, but it was nothing like the one that they'd had that afternoon. He leveled a resounding kick into the punching bag, sending it quivering on its chains.

The day had started out innocently enough when they had woken, tangled up in the sheets and each other in their bed that morning. She had stirred nearly an hour after her had, stretching against him like a cat, and wrapping her arms around his torso.

"Good morning." She'd muttered into his chest, her lips brushing over his bare skin gently. He had muttered something that sounded like "good morning" into the tendrils of her hair and tucked her closer to his body. He didn't want to move, but he knew that he had a job he needed to get done, and there was a file laying on his workbench that he needed to run through.

"I have to get up." He whispered, brushing his lips over her temple and down the side of her neck. A shudder ran through her body as his teeth grazed over her pulse point.

"If you don't get up now, you're not going to leave this bed anytime soon." Fiona murmured against his lips as she pulled him into a deep kiss. Michael grumbled, but rolled out of the bed, tossing the sheet off of him and padding through the loft in his dark sweatpants. Pouring himself a glass of water, he leaned against the workbench and flipping through the file folder.

"So, what's the job?" Fi's voice behind him was startling, and he mentally cursed. He would deny it until the day that they put him in the ground, but she was one of the only people in the world that could still manage to walk up behind him without him being aware. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, attempting to hide his surprise from her.

"It's nothing important, Fi. I think that Sam and I can handle this one, so you can hunker down here in case we need some background support." He muttered, running his hand over his hair. He could feel the heat from Fiona's glare against the side of his head, but he pointedly stared at the file in front of him, determined not to look at her.

"Michael, you can't seriously think that I'm going to sit here while you and Sam go skipping off into the wild blue yonder to do God knows what without proper back up." She snapped.

"Sam is proper back up, Fi." Michael replied, quirking an eyebrow at her and setting the file down to turn and look at her. "This isn't about me and Sam going on some job without you. We've done that plenty of times before. What's going on with you, Fi?"

Her silence stretched out between them for what was probably only a few minutes, but it felt like hours. Michael ducked his head to catch her emerald gaze with his own, his finger hooking under her chin and lifting her face.

"Talk to me." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"What if you don't come back? I want to be on these jobs with you so that I know your back is covered."

"Sam can cover me, Fi, that has never been a problem. Why is it such an issue with you now?" Fiona paced the floor in front of him, raking her fingers through her hair.

"Because," She paused, as if she were trying to find the words that she was looking for. "Because I love you, and that doesn't seem to matter to you much these days."

"What? How...how can you say that?" He was shocked at the admission. "What makes you think that doesn't matter to me?"

"Because you seem hellbent on running head first into the line of fire without the slightest thought about what would happen to the rest of us if you don't come home one of these days."

"Fi, this is who I am. This is what I do. You know that." Fiona spun on her heel and got directly in his face.

"You know that is a bullshit answer, Michael." She snarled, her finger poking into his chest. Her eyes flamed and her body radiated anger. Michael had seen her mad before, but this was something completely different. This was...pure, unfiltered, no-holds-barred rage. "You know, it's a bit ridiculous that I still have to deal with this...this psychological problem that you seem to have been cursed with."

"What's that supposed to mean, Fiona?" He spat, not entirely sure that he was willing to know the meaning behind her venomous tone.

"It means that it's not my fault that your father used to hit you, and it's not my fault that you used to have to protect your mother and Nate, but that's in that past, Michael. It's okay to let me into your life, and it's okay to admit that you are afraid to lose someone you care about." Her voice was low and even as she spoke.

Michael stared at her, his gaze artic and hard. Fiona immediately regretted the statement when she saw the hurt flashing across his features. His muscles began to shake, and his fists balled at his sides.

"Get. Out." He hissed between his clenched teeth.

"Michael, I'm so sorry..." She reached out to place her hand on his shoulder, but he dodged to the side and deflected her hand.

"I'm not kidding. Get the hell out, Fiona." She opened her mouth to respond, but shook her head and slowly walked out of the loft, leaving him standing in the middle of it, his arms hanging loosely at his sides and his eyes trained on the floor. She felt hot tears burning in her eyes as she closed the door behind her and stepped out into the Miami heat.

Blood streamed down his arms from under the tape over his knuckles as he delivered another resounding blow to the tan canvas and tattered duct tape.

"Michael?" Truth be told, the small whisper shouldn't have shocked him. In fact, he'd been expecting it for the better part of the day. But, somehow, the whispered tones were more like a fist to the stomach than a plea in the humid night air. He didn't turn around, he just continued punching the bag, ignoring the sparks of pain that shot through his arm.

"What do you want, Fiona?" He growled, his voice harsh.

"I want to apologize. I was," She sucked in a deep breath and he heard her purse hitting the floor. "I was scared and I didn't mean it. I'm sorry."

"Fiona, you wouldn't have said it if you hadn't meant it." Michael replied. He grunted as he threw a final punch, the canvas of the bag giving way under the force of his knuckles. "Damn it!" He barked as the sand from the punching bag spilled across the floor.

"Michael, you've got to listen to me. I didn't think about what I was saying." She stepped forward cautiously. When he didn't step away, she took a chance and reached out to pull him into her arms. Her fingers threaded through his hair as she held him close. Michael hesitated before wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face into the crook of her neck.

His tears scorched a trail down her skin as his silent sobs wracked his body. Fiona knew that she had gone too far, and she knew that the road to healing the cracks in his soul were going to take a long time. She knew that it would take hard work and dedication. But she also knew that it wasn't going to be goodbye for them. She placed a kiss to his temple and whispered words of apology and comfort into his ear as he let go of everything that he'd kept bottled up.

As long as they were together, she wouldn't say goodbye to him. She couldn't. He was the puzzle piece that completed the broken picture of her life, and she couldn't lose him. And perhaps the words that she had for him weren't going to be enough to fix the ruins of them that laid on the ground next to the sands of the punching bag and the spatter of Michael's blood, but she'd be damned if she didn't give her everything in an effort to fix it. Afterall, if Fiona Glenanne was anything, it was a fighter.

So, I'm not sure about this one. Thoughts?

Drop me a review and let me know?

Much love,

J. Rook