Never Drive Away Mad - Michael x KITT
May. 31st, 2011 09:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thecrazyalaskanIf one could see through tinted glass and had superhuman hearing (or at the very least read lips), they would have seen and heard Michael Knight arguing with… no one. The human would speak, then a panel on the dashboard of his vehicle would flash for a moment; more often than not these things would happen simultaneously.
Inside the vehicle, a Trans AM, Michael and KITT, the AI behind the flashing panel, were trying to talk over one another—and not in the typical, friendly banter way they normally addressed one another. "KITT, if you had just told me the inside man was getting away—" Michael began.
I attempted to, Michael, KITT replied. When the Trans AM was angry, he never raised his voice; rather, he spoke very levelly, quietly, like he did now. However, you were busy entertaining your lady friend.
Michael heaved an exasperated sigh—he was still on about that…? "KITT, I told you," he replied, "she's our contact, and it was a business lunch."
I've heard that one before. To be perfectly honest, I've heard that one before multiple times. Shall I recount them individually? There was an icy edge to KITT's voice that had never been there before.
"You'd bring all that up?" Michael asked, pulling into the hotel parking lot.
If I had the time, yes—I would remind you of the instances in which your personal needs came before those of the mission.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Michael asked coldly.
It could mean that there are well over seventy-five documented instances of your very unprofessional conduct from the past three months alone, or it could mean that your consistent disregard for your work is beginning to affect your performance. Which definition do you prefer?
"Well, excuse the hell out of me," Michael snapped.
Unfortunately, Michael, I've reached the point where I cannot excuse your behavior. If he had been human or even a lesser sapient being, KITT's jaw would have been tense with irritation. This may come as quite the surprise to you, but you are not the only one in this duo whose opinions matter.
"Okay, I'll bite," Michael replied, lifting his hands in resignation. A bawling out from KITT was just as bad as a bawling out from Devon (truthfully, Michael often wondered if the two got together and exchanged notes) but the best results were gotten in the same way: just let them chew you out until they ran out of steam. "What are you talking about?"
Whenever I suggest we carry on with an assignment, you more often than not seem to be distracted, KITT pointed out coldly. Bars and attractive young women appear to be the most distracting things for you.
"Get the hell out of town, KITT," Michael groaned. "You expect me to drop the basic human need for companionship because you say so?"
Furthermore, KITT went on as though Michael hadn't spoken, the abuse I take for you doesn't seem to register as such in your mind.
"What abuse?" Michael asked incredulously. "Don't like the way your tires are wearing?"
Tell you what, Michael, KITT replied, feigning a friendly tone of voice. The next time I want the impossible done, you can overheat your circuitry. The next time I'm in police impound, you can come break me out by crashing through a wall with your own body.
"You don't even feel pain," Michael grumbled.
You don't have to spend time in the repair bay after every mission, KITT pointed out. You may think you're the only person who can be lectured by Bonnie and Devon, but such is not the case—in fact, I often take the fall for you, as they say, with little to no thanks.
"What do you want me to do?" the human asked incredulously. "Take you through an automatic car wash?"
I want you to acknowledge what I do to keep things running smoothly, KITT replied hotly. Just once, I'd like to be thanked!
"Y'know, you're lucky I'm in a decent mood right now," Michael warned, his voice as dark as the clouds outside, "otherwise I'd send you back to the Foundation with a Post-It on your windshield that said 'Take it back.'"
The words stung, especially that Michael often asked what he would do without the Trans AM. The fact that he could discuss getting rid of KITT so easily—The same could be said for you, Michael Knight.
"What are you talking about?" Michael snapped.
You were saved by Mr. Knight's good graces, KITT reminded coldly. You were kept on by Devon's good graces. You are kept alive by my good graces, and mine alone.
"What's that supposed to mean?" the human asked snapped.
It means that without me, your foolhardiness will kill you, KITT answered, seemingly careless about the effect the words had on his partner, as it did in Nevada.
For a moment, Michael couldn't speak. The memory of damn near dying was still fresh and painful, and KITT knew better than to address it with anything less than the utmost tact. But there were the words— the suggestion that it was Michael's own doing that had nearly cost him (or rather, Michael Long's) life— laid out between them like a pit.
Michael wished the AI was a human so that he could strangle him. In this case, he clenched his hand into a fist… and spoke surprisingly calmly. "Tell you what," he announced almost amiably. "You obviously have something up your tailpipe, so here's the plan: To hell with you, I'm going to watch bad hotel cable until one of us gets his head on straight."
KITT opened the driver side door, all but jerking the seat to the side to force Michael out of it (not that the human needed telling twice). Don't bother trying to rectify the situation, or yourself, Michael, he told the human coldly. You're beyond helping. With that, he slammed his door shut, pulled out of the parking space and peeled out of the lot. He fishtailed around a corner and drove out of sight as a rumble of thunder broke overhead.
Michael grumbled about the Goddamned, stubborn Trans AM for a moment, and stepped into the hotel just as a heavy rain started to fall. Thunder rumbled once more as Michael reached his hotel room, and the wind picked up as he unlocked the door and let himself in. He tossed his jacket on the chair by the window and sat heavily on the bed, kicking off his shoes. Lightning briefly illuminated the room in a way the fluorescent lights could not.
The storm raged on, and Michael spent the time exactly as he said he would—watching bad hotel cable. Occasionally, a flash of lightning lit up the room and thunder rumbled in his ears. It was going to be a bitch of a storm, especially for anyone out driving in it.
That anyone did include sapient Trans AMs who generally did badly on poor road conditions to begin with, but right now, Michael couldn't even force himself to give a damn. At least he wasn't out in it, too.
While he was watching the local news at ten, he suddenly realized that he felt like crap. It had become hard to get his eyes to properly focus on the TV, and his hands shook as he set the remote aside.
Something was wrong, and Michael had the feeling he could only blame it on one thing. He stood and staggered to the chair where he'd laid his jacket. Through something that was no less than a minor miracle, he remained on his feet long enough to get what he needed from his jacket pocket—a glucose meter.
Michael stumbled back to the bed and collapsed into a sitting position. With shaking hands (was it because of what he suspected his problem was, or because he could feel his nerves fraying…?), he jabbed his finger with a sterile needle and coaxed enough blood from the digit for the meter to get a reading. He wiped sweat away from his brow as he anxiously watched the small machine.
When the meter told him what his blood sugar was, his jaw dropped. He knew his numbers were low, yeah, but he didn't realize they were that low…! Christ, when was the last time he'd eaten? Oh yeah—business lunch. That had been… how many hours ago?
This warranted an emergency pen use, and a trip to the ER. Michael hauled himself vertical and went to the chair once more. He started to dig through his suitcase, looking for the bright orange glucagon kit. Much to his concern, it was nowhere to be found. He rifled through the clothes again, starting to feel sick from both hypoglycemia and dread.
It wasn't in the suitcase! He collapsed on the chair, trying to force his muddled brain to think. It wasn't in his suitcase, or in his jacket. It wasn't anywhere in the room at all—which left only one place in the world. Or rather, one person.
Michael could only hope that he would be willing to listen…
~*~*~*~
KITT had driven long and hard. Longer and harder than he probably should have, but anything to get as far away from Michael Knight as possible. His travels had found him several miles away from the town in which they had been working, in the countryside of the next county over. He was sitting under a tree on a hill, watching (as much as he could watch without human vision, anyway) the wind whip through a cornfield. Parking under a tree in the middle of a thunderstorm was probably a bad idea, but he was practically a meteorology station on wheels; he'd already analyzed the weather conditions and decided he could take his chances.
The dark, dangerous weather matched his mood.
His comm started to beep. KITT shifted his attention to it, wondering who on Earth was calling at this late hour. The name—Knight, Michael A., Watch—flashed on the screen. Hmph. Michael—selfish bastard could go stick his head in the sand for all KITT cared. He went back to watching the field, wiping the pouring rain off his windshield.
The comm went quiet for a moment… then started up again, top priority this time—which included Michael verbally addressing him before the Trans AM even considered answering the call. "KITT? Buddy, pick up…"
Even though he had called KITT "buddy," the Trans AM was hesitant to answer. The words sounded slurred, like Michael had been drinking in the hotel bar. Rare was the day that Michael drank for the hell of it, but when he did and was in foul mood, he could be extremely unpleasant to deal with.
"KITT? C'mon, buddy, pick up," Michael's voice repeated. It sounded urgent, but KITT still wondered if Michael had called to bawl him out.
The comm beeped again, and KITT finally acknowledged it. Yes, Michael? he asked archly.
"KITT, where's my emergency pen?" Michael asked with little prelude.
The Trans AM paused, thinking of the bright orange glucagon pen to which Michael referred. Isn't it with you? he asked slowly.
KITT could hear Michael's laborious headshake. "I can't find it; is it with you?"
Perhaps Michael hadn't been drinking. If his voice was slurred, if speaking was such a struggle, and he was asking after his emergency glucagon injection—KITT scanned his interior. There it was, in his glove compartment. I have it with me, Michael.
"I need that pen, buddy," Michael told him over the comm. "My numbers are low."
KITT could feel righteous concern light up his AI. He almost dreaded the answer to his next question: How low is "low?"
Michael told him. If KITT had been human, he would have drawn a sharp breath. Never, in all the time the human and the Trans AM had known one another, and the latter had been aware that the former was diabetic, had Michael's numbers been so low. Michael, I'm coming back, KITT told him, already peeling out of his place under the tree. Stay on the line—do not lose consciousness.
"KITT, where are you?" Michael asked, sounding doubly confused by both the havoc his low blood sugar was wreaking on his body and by KITT's words.
The Trans AM hesitated to tell Michael that he was in the next county, despite the fact that he was currently travelling well in excess of one hundred twenty miles an hour and rapidly approaching said county line.
"KITT, y'still there?" Michael asked, almost worried.
I'm still here, Michael, KITT reassured.
There was a brief lull in the conversation—no more than fifteen seconds, but more than enough to worry KITT. Michael? Michael, are you still awake?
"Still 'wake, KITT," Michael confirmed.
Michael, do everything you can to stay awake, KITT told him, all but imploring. If you go under, we might not be able to bring you back. The idea of Michael losing consciousness and slipping into a coma and quite probably dying sent waves of fear through KITT's meta.
"'Kay, buddy," Michael replied.
KITT kept the human awake by talking to him, asking questions he already knew the answer to (Michael's steak preference: New York strip, medium rare), listening to stories he'd already heard (that great bar in Albuquerque), simple word games—anything to engage Michael's mind and keep from falling asleep.
Just before KITT arrived back at the hotel, he addressed Michael again, asking a question. He was met with radio silence. He repeated the question, but received no response. Michael…? KITT asked with growing concern.
No reply. Michael, did you lose consciousness? Michael! To hell with the speed limit, and to hell with the consequences for his circuitry—KITT shifted into Pursuit and tore down the street and into the hotel parking lot in record time.
For all his speed, KITT was able to pull into the parking place immediately outside Michael's room and stop on a dime. Almost dreading the results, KITT found Michael's energy signature and ran a medical scan. It didn't look promising—his heart rate and breathing were slow, and his blood sugar was still dropping. He had gone under sitting in the chair by the window.
KITT always hated the limitations of his Trans AM form—when Michael needed a second set of hands, another able body, he was unable to help him, and that applied double when the human was injured. The hurt of being so damn helpless was magnified ten-fold now that Michael's life was on the line—dangerously so.
When KITT and Michael ran into a problem neither could readily solve, KITT called Bonnie (or Devon, in the most serious of circumstances). This time, though, the problem was something neither Bonnie nor Devon could fix, and even if they could miracle Michael's blood sugar back to normal, they were three hundred fifty miles away…!
KITT forced himself to think back, to Michael's very specific instructions: If I ever have a serious episode, don't panic and call 911.
He wished he could say he was calm as he tapped into the phone line and dialed. Physically, he was incapable of shaking, but emotionally… well, that was another matter as he waited for the call to connect.
One… two… "Nine one one, what is your emergency?"
My… KITT paused, briefly. How to describe his relationship with Michael to an outside party? Closer than friends or brothers, barely skirting the edge of lovers? He settled on—brother is going into hypoglycemic shock.
KITT could hear his words being typed in the background as he described Michael's symptoms and vitals (trying to cut back on the detail; a human wouldn't know Michael's height down to the precise millimeter, after all) and described a fake phone call—Michael had called because he was feeling poorly, only to realize his blood sugar was well below anything resembling a safety margin. "Where is he now?"
My brother is at the Ridgecrest Hotel. KITT gave the address and room number. The door will be unlocked. Thankfully, he could quietly sonic-pick a lock with the best of them.
"Does he have a glucagon—"
He left it in his car—a black Trans AM. The irony did not escape KITT. It's in the glove compartment; the doors are unlocked, he said. Well… they would be once an EMT came to fetch the pen.
After that, KITT's patience with the operator had worn out and he barely listened to the rest of the questions, answering them with little thought. He caught that he had elected to call himself Christopher Knight and had given them a contact number that would lead to no phone on earth, and that an ambulance had been sent. KITT thanked the operator and hung up in turn. To wait.
The ambulance arrived minutes later, and parked directly behind KITT. Inside the Trans AM, there was a hiss of air from a vent that was the closest thing KITT could give to a sigh of relief. The EMTs had no trouble getting into Michael's room and got right to work. KITT could only watch, feeling like… well, like something he'd only heard Michael and Bonnie mention once or twice in his presence—a guardian angel.
KITT wondered if guardian angels always felt this defenseless watching over their charges.
Footsteps caught KITT's attention. "Glucagon should be in glove compartment of the car," one of the EMTs called over his shoulder. "Black Trans AM."
That was KITT's cue to be as unassuming and inanimate as possible. Upon the EMT's approach, he quietly unlocked his doors, complying as the complete stranger opened his door and poked around inside. At least said poking around was brief—the glove compartment was popped open, and inside, unmistakable to miss among the (token) insurance papers and a packet of assorted hard candies (also for Michael's blood sugar), was an orange glucagon rescue kit. Respecting his patient's privacy, the EMT shut the glove compartment and closed the Trans AM's door before making a hasty return to the hotel room.
Unbeknownst to him, while he and his partner were administering the patient's injection, the Trans AM had already locked itself once more.
The storm was still in full swing when Michael was loaded onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. Given that Michael was unconscious, and KITT's medical scans found him getting worryingly closer to comatose by the second, neither of them seemed to care if the human got a little wet between the hotel room and the back of the ambulance.
Hearing the doors of the ambulance shut behind Michael would have physically hurt KITT, had he been able to feel pain. Regardless, it seemed so… final—no. He forced the thought away from the active portions of his CPU. The idea of losing Michael was one he would not consider.
The ambulance pulled out of the parking lot and turned left, lights and sirens going at what KITT knew damn good and well were the earmarks of a Code Three. He waited… gave them a one hundred yard lead… and quietly followed, eventually settling himself in a parking spot on the hospital grounds for the night.
~*~*~*~
When Michael came to, it was to a mild headache, an fuzzy space in his short-term memory and a plain white ceiling. Admittedly, the ceiling alone wasn't unusual, as he'd come across many a white ceiling in his life. No the unusual part came from the fact that he could hear a heart rate monitor and there was an IV sticking out of his right hand.
Okay, he was in a hospital… Funny, he didn't feel like he'd gotten the snot kicked out of him recently. A fresh wave of dull tension broke in his head. He winced lightly, rubbing his forehead—wait, was he shaking? Michael held up his hands—he was trembling lightly. He ran his hand through his hair, trying to remember what the hell had happened that landed him in the hospital for a headache and the shakes.
Wait… Now he remembered—his blood sugar had taken a nose dive. He was starting to remember everything, including… Oh yeah. His fight with KITT.
Michael grimaced as he recalled the details of the argument. What was it he had called KITT? A Goddamned, stubborn Trans AM, one he'd told to go to hell and even threatened to give back to the Foundation. That should have been the first sign that something had been amiss with him, Michael thought: the fact that he had threatened to, and indeed seriously considered, get rid of KITT, that the combative nature he got when hypoglycemia reared its ugly head was directed at someone about whom he deeply cared.
And look at what happened. KITT had driven off in a (justifiable) huff, and Michael had been left alone, nearly for dead… and yet he was still alive. He remembered calling KITT, and remembered…
He remembered KITT hauling ass to get back to the hotel, which made Michael want to kick himself. KITT didn't have to care so much. He could have easily ignored him, pretended he didn't have Michael's glucagon, told him to stick his head in the sand for all he cared…
But he didn't. He had rushed back to the hotel, and Michael could only assume it was KITT who had summoned medical help after he had blacked out. To any outside observer, KITT's actions would simply be chalked up to his altruistic nature, to his basic function to protect the life of his driver. But Michael knew better—anyone who wronged KITT in some manner knew it, and it took nothing less than flowers, a tub of Turtle Wax and a heartfelt apology to get back on his good side.
With something akin to mild horror, Michael recalled the last words he and KITT exchanged—Tell you what. You obviously have something up your tailpipe, so here's the plan: To hell with you… Don't bother trying to rectify the situation, or yourself, Michael. You're beyond helping. Not Let's talk about this later or I'm sorry, but go to hell and you're a hopeless case.
Michael wilted against the pillows, feeling like garbage and wondering… He glanced over at the bedside table. Sitting next to phone with his empty glucagon kit and a handful of pocket change was his watch. Perfect. After a brief struggle to get the watch on without disturbing his IV, he pressed the button and whispered hoarsely, "KITT…?"
KITT didn't sleep, not in the traditional sense. The closest thing he had was to remain quiet, with all non-essential systems shut down, and rest.
Right now, though, it didn't matter if he slept or recharged or whatever he chose to call it; he wasn't having much luck with it. Worst-case scenarios were racing through his CPU, each more worrying than the last. He had just imagined how his and Michael's lives would play out if the human walked away with severe brain damage when his comm chirped. Again, Knight, Michael A. flashed on the screen; KITT answered before the first chirps died. Michael? He sounded more hopeful than he ever would have dared to admit.
"KITT… Hey buddy." Michael sounded exhausted, but relieved to hear the Trans AM's vocal modulator.
How are you feeling, Michael? KITT asked, just as relieved to hear Michael's voice again.
"Tired," the human replied truthfully, "but a lot better than I would have if you hadn't called nine one one." There was a thoughtful pause. "Thanks for being there for me, KITT."
It was KITT's turn to pause. I almost wasn't, he admitted softly. Michael, I apologize—
"Don't bother, KITT," Michael cut off. "I'm the one who's sorry." He paused, weighing his next words. "You're right—I do treat you like garbage, and that's completely unacceptable."
KITT would have winced at the memory of his words if he had been capable of it. Michael, I didn't mean that, he began weakly.
"KITT, we both know you don't lie," Michael gently cut off. "Not to me, at least. So… Are you willing to accept an idiot's apology?"
Only if you're willing to accept mine for being stubborn and prideful, KITT replied instantly. He didn't tell Michael that his apologies were always accepted and he was always forgiven.
"You don't have to apologize, KITT," Michael gently insisted. "But if it makes you feel better: apology accepted." There was a pause; when Michael spoke again, KITT could hear his smart aleck grin. "Thanks for telling me I'm not an idiot."
KITT chuckled warmly. But you're my idiot, Michael. Two could play at that game.
The human laughed, honest and open. "Love you too, KITT."
They sat in comfortable silence, KITT in the parking lot and Michael in his hospital bed. Eventually, KITT spoke: Michael, I think we learned something this evening.
"Yeah, KITT?" Michael asked. "What's that?"
To never drive away mad.
-.-.-.-
Title: Never Drive Away Mad
Author: TheCrazyAlaskan
Fandom / Setting: Classic Knight Rider
Characters / Pairings: Michael x KITT
Rating: T
warnings: Medical stuff, dark
Summary: Do not let the sun go down on your anger. – Ephesians 4:26
Commission for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
locoexclaimer
More exploration of Michael x KITT, with my mind canon of Michael being diabetic coming into play. The basic idea for this was a bunny loco and I were working on; the prompt was “Turpentine Kisses and Mistaken Blows.” We still don’t exactly know what the hell that prompt was asking of us, so we winged it and ended up with the basic idea that Michael and KITT get into a fight about something, KITT drives away mad, and then something bad happens to Michael.Because the angst train makes frequent stops at our bunny farms. It was either the Big Bad of the Week poisons Michael or KITT drives off with Michael’s insulin in his glove compartment.
And then I realized I was thinking of glucagon and nine pages later, here we go.
Writing this, I realized… it’s hard to write Michael and KITT fighting. They work so nicely together it’s hard to mess with that.
Also: Yes, the summary is a Bible quote. Deal with it.
Michael Knight, KITT, Knight Rider © Glen A Larson
Inside the vehicle, a Trans AM, Michael and KITT, the AI behind the flashing panel, were trying to talk over one another—and not in the typical, friendly banter way they normally addressed one another. "KITT, if you had just told me the inside man was getting away—" Michael began.
I attempted to, Michael, KITT replied. When the Trans AM was angry, he never raised his voice; rather, he spoke very levelly, quietly, like he did now. However, you were busy entertaining your lady friend.
Michael heaved an exasperated sigh—he was still on about that…? "KITT, I told you," he replied, "she's our contact, and it was a business lunch."
I've heard that one before. To be perfectly honest, I've heard that one before multiple times. Shall I recount them individually? There was an icy edge to KITT's voice that had never been there before.
"You'd bring all that up?" Michael asked, pulling into the hotel parking lot.
If I had the time, yes—I would remind you of the instances in which your personal needs came before those of the mission.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Michael asked coldly.
It could mean that there are well over seventy-five documented instances of your very unprofessional conduct from the past three months alone, or it could mean that your consistent disregard for your work is beginning to affect your performance. Which definition do you prefer?
"Well, excuse the hell out of me," Michael snapped.
Unfortunately, Michael, I've reached the point where I cannot excuse your behavior. If he had been human or even a lesser sapient being, KITT's jaw would have been tense with irritation. This may come as quite the surprise to you, but you are not the only one in this duo whose opinions matter.
"Okay, I'll bite," Michael replied, lifting his hands in resignation. A bawling out from KITT was just as bad as a bawling out from Devon (truthfully, Michael often wondered if the two got together and exchanged notes) but the best results were gotten in the same way: just let them chew you out until they ran out of steam. "What are you talking about?"
Whenever I suggest we carry on with an assignment, you more often than not seem to be distracted, KITT pointed out coldly. Bars and attractive young women appear to be the most distracting things for you.
"Get the hell out of town, KITT," Michael groaned. "You expect me to drop the basic human need for companionship because you say so?"
Furthermore, KITT went on as though Michael hadn't spoken, the abuse I take for you doesn't seem to register as such in your mind.
"What abuse?" Michael asked incredulously. "Don't like the way your tires are wearing?"
Tell you what, Michael, KITT replied, feigning a friendly tone of voice. The next time I want the impossible done, you can overheat your circuitry. The next time I'm in police impound, you can come break me out by crashing through a wall with your own body.
"You don't even feel pain," Michael grumbled.
You don't have to spend time in the repair bay after every mission, KITT pointed out. You may think you're the only person who can be lectured by Bonnie and Devon, but such is not the case—in fact, I often take the fall for you, as they say, with little to no thanks.
"What do you want me to do?" the human asked incredulously. "Take you through an automatic car wash?"
I want you to acknowledge what I do to keep things running smoothly, KITT replied hotly. Just once, I'd like to be thanked!
"Y'know, you're lucky I'm in a decent mood right now," Michael warned, his voice as dark as the clouds outside, "otherwise I'd send you back to the Foundation with a Post-It on your windshield that said 'Take it back.'"
The words stung, especially that Michael often asked what he would do without the Trans AM. The fact that he could discuss getting rid of KITT so easily—The same could be said for you, Michael Knight.
"What are you talking about?" Michael snapped.
You were saved by Mr. Knight's good graces, KITT reminded coldly. You were kept on by Devon's good graces. You are kept alive by my good graces, and mine alone.
"What's that supposed to mean?" the human asked snapped.
It means that without me, your foolhardiness will kill you, KITT answered, seemingly careless about the effect the words had on his partner, as it did in Nevada.
For a moment, Michael couldn't speak. The memory of damn near dying was still fresh and painful, and KITT knew better than to address it with anything less than the utmost tact. But there were the words— the suggestion that it was Michael's own doing that had nearly cost him (or rather, Michael Long's) life— laid out between them like a pit.
Michael wished the AI was a human so that he could strangle him. In this case, he clenched his hand into a fist… and spoke surprisingly calmly. "Tell you what," he announced almost amiably. "You obviously have something up your tailpipe, so here's the plan: To hell with you, I'm going to watch bad hotel cable until one of us gets his head on straight."
KITT opened the driver side door, all but jerking the seat to the side to force Michael out of it (not that the human needed telling twice). Don't bother trying to rectify the situation, or yourself, Michael, he told the human coldly. You're beyond helping. With that, he slammed his door shut, pulled out of the parking space and peeled out of the lot. He fishtailed around a corner and drove out of sight as a rumble of thunder broke overhead.
Michael grumbled about the Goddamned, stubborn Trans AM for a moment, and stepped into the hotel just as a heavy rain started to fall. Thunder rumbled once more as Michael reached his hotel room, and the wind picked up as he unlocked the door and let himself in. He tossed his jacket on the chair by the window and sat heavily on the bed, kicking off his shoes. Lightning briefly illuminated the room in a way the fluorescent lights could not.
The storm raged on, and Michael spent the time exactly as he said he would—watching bad hotel cable. Occasionally, a flash of lightning lit up the room and thunder rumbled in his ears. It was going to be a bitch of a storm, especially for anyone out driving in it.
That anyone did include sapient Trans AMs who generally did badly on poor road conditions to begin with, but right now, Michael couldn't even force himself to give a damn. At least he wasn't out in it, too.
While he was watching the local news at ten, he suddenly realized that he felt like crap. It had become hard to get his eyes to properly focus on the TV, and his hands shook as he set the remote aside.
Something was wrong, and Michael had the feeling he could only blame it on one thing. He stood and staggered to the chair where he'd laid his jacket. Through something that was no less than a minor miracle, he remained on his feet long enough to get what he needed from his jacket pocket—a glucose meter.
Michael stumbled back to the bed and collapsed into a sitting position. With shaking hands (was it because of what he suspected his problem was, or because he could feel his nerves fraying…?), he jabbed his finger with a sterile needle and coaxed enough blood from the digit for the meter to get a reading. He wiped sweat away from his brow as he anxiously watched the small machine.
When the meter told him what his blood sugar was, his jaw dropped. He knew his numbers were low, yeah, but he didn't realize they were that low…! Christ, when was the last time he'd eaten? Oh yeah—business lunch. That had been… how many hours ago?
This warranted an emergency pen use, and a trip to the ER. Michael hauled himself vertical and went to the chair once more. He started to dig through his suitcase, looking for the bright orange glucagon kit. Much to his concern, it was nowhere to be found. He rifled through the clothes again, starting to feel sick from both hypoglycemia and dread.
It wasn't in the suitcase! He collapsed on the chair, trying to force his muddled brain to think. It wasn't in his suitcase, or in his jacket. It wasn't anywhere in the room at all—which left only one place in the world. Or rather, one person.
Michael could only hope that he would be willing to listen…
~*~*~*~
KITT had driven long and hard. Longer and harder than he probably should have, but anything to get as far away from Michael Knight as possible. His travels had found him several miles away from the town in which they had been working, in the countryside of the next county over. He was sitting under a tree on a hill, watching (as much as he could watch without human vision, anyway) the wind whip through a cornfield. Parking under a tree in the middle of a thunderstorm was probably a bad idea, but he was practically a meteorology station on wheels; he'd already analyzed the weather conditions and decided he could take his chances.
The dark, dangerous weather matched his mood.
His comm started to beep. KITT shifted his attention to it, wondering who on Earth was calling at this late hour. The name—Knight, Michael A., Watch—flashed on the screen. Hmph. Michael—selfish bastard could go stick his head in the sand for all KITT cared. He went back to watching the field, wiping the pouring rain off his windshield.
The comm went quiet for a moment… then started up again, top priority this time—which included Michael verbally addressing him before the Trans AM even considered answering the call. "KITT? Buddy, pick up…"
Even though he had called KITT "buddy," the Trans AM was hesitant to answer. The words sounded slurred, like Michael had been drinking in the hotel bar. Rare was the day that Michael drank for the hell of it, but when he did and was in foul mood, he could be extremely unpleasant to deal with.
"KITT? C'mon, buddy, pick up," Michael's voice repeated. It sounded urgent, but KITT still wondered if Michael had called to bawl him out.
The comm beeped again, and KITT finally acknowledged it. Yes, Michael? he asked archly.
"KITT, where's my emergency pen?" Michael asked with little prelude.
The Trans AM paused, thinking of the bright orange glucagon pen to which Michael referred. Isn't it with you? he asked slowly.
KITT could hear Michael's laborious headshake. "I can't find it; is it with you?"
Perhaps Michael hadn't been drinking. If his voice was slurred, if speaking was such a struggle, and he was asking after his emergency glucagon injection—KITT scanned his interior. There it was, in his glove compartment. I have it with me, Michael.
"I need that pen, buddy," Michael told him over the comm. "My numbers are low."
KITT could feel righteous concern light up his AI. He almost dreaded the answer to his next question: How low is "low?"
Michael told him. If KITT had been human, he would have drawn a sharp breath. Never, in all the time the human and the Trans AM had known one another, and the latter had been aware that the former was diabetic, had Michael's numbers been so low. Michael, I'm coming back, KITT told him, already peeling out of his place under the tree. Stay on the line—do not lose consciousness.
"KITT, where are you?" Michael asked, sounding doubly confused by both the havoc his low blood sugar was wreaking on his body and by KITT's words.
The Trans AM hesitated to tell Michael that he was in the next county, despite the fact that he was currently travelling well in excess of one hundred twenty miles an hour and rapidly approaching said county line.
"KITT, y'still there?" Michael asked, almost worried.
I'm still here, Michael, KITT reassured.
There was a brief lull in the conversation—no more than fifteen seconds, but more than enough to worry KITT. Michael? Michael, are you still awake?
"Still 'wake, KITT," Michael confirmed.
Michael, do everything you can to stay awake, KITT told him, all but imploring. If you go under, we might not be able to bring you back. The idea of Michael losing consciousness and slipping into a coma and quite probably dying sent waves of fear through KITT's meta.
"'Kay, buddy," Michael replied.
KITT kept the human awake by talking to him, asking questions he already knew the answer to (Michael's steak preference: New York strip, medium rare), listening to stories he'd already heard (that great bar in Albuquerque), simple word games—anything to engage Michael's mind and keep from falling asleep.
Just before KITT arrived back at the hotel, he addressed Michael again, asking a question. He was met with radio silence. He repeated the question, but received no response. Michael…? KITT asked with growing concern.
No reply. Michael, did you lose consciousness? Michael! To hell with the speed limit, and to hell with the consequences for his circuitry—KITT shifted into Pursuit and tore down the street and into the hotel parking lot in record time.
For all his speed, KITT was able to pull into the parking place immediately outside Michael's room and stop on a dime. Almost dreading the results, KITT found Michael's energy signature and ran a medical scan. It didn't look promising—his heart rate and breathing were slow, and his blood sugar was still dropping. He had gone under sitting in the chair by the window.
KITT always hated the limitations of his Trans AM form—when Michael needed a second set of hands, another able body, he was unable to help him, and that applied double when the human was injured. The hurt of being so damn helpless was magnified ten-fold now that Michael's life was on the line—dangerously so.
When KITT and Michael ran into a problem neither could readily solve, KITT called Bonnie (or Devon, in the most serious of circumstances). This time, though, the problem was something neither Bonnie nor Devon could fix, and even if they could miracle Michael's blood sugar back to normal, they were three hundred fifty miles away…!
KITT forced himself to think back, to Michael's very specific instructions: If I ever have a serious episode, don't panic and call 911.
He wished he could say he was calm as he tapped into the phone line and dialed. Physically, he was incapable of shaking, but emotionally… well, that was another matter as he waited for the call to connect.
One… two… "Nine one one, what is your emergency?"
My… KITT paused, briefly. How to describe his relationship with Michael to an outside party? Closer than friends or brothers, barely skirting the edge of lovers? He settled on—brother is going into hypoglycemic shock.
KITT could hear his words being typed in the background as he described Michael's symptoms and vitals (trying to cut back on the detail; a human wouldn't know Michael's height down to the precise millimeter, after all) and described a fake phone call—Michael had called because he was feeling poorly, only to realize his blood sugar was well below anything resembling a safety margin. "Where is he now?"
My brother is at the Ridgecrest Hotel. KITT gave the address and room number. The door will be unlocked. Thankfully, he could quietly sonic-pick a lock with the best of them.
"Does he have a glucagon—"
He left it in his car—a black Trans AM. The irony did not escape KITT. It's in the glove compartment; the doors are unlocked, he said. Well… they would be once an EMT came to fetch the pen.
After that, KITT's patience with the operator had worn out and he barely listened to the rest of the questions, answering them with little thought. He caught that he had elected to call himself Christopher Knight and had given them a contact number that would lead to no phone on earth, and that an ambulance had been sent. KITT thanked the operator and hung up in turn. To wait.
The ambulance arrived minutes later, and parked directly behind KITT. Inside the Trans AM, there was a hiss of air from a vent that was the closest thing KITT could give to a sigh of relief. The EMTs had no trouble getting into Michael's room and got right to work. KITT could only watch, feeling like… well, like something he'd only heard Michael and Bonnie mention once or twice in his presence—a guardian angel.
KITT wondered if guardian angels always felt this defenseless watching over their charges.
Footsteps caught KITT's attention. "Glucagon should be in glove compartment of the car," one of the EMTs called over his shoulder. "Black Trans AM."
That was KITT's cue to be as unassuming and inanimate as possible. Upon the EMT's approach, he quietly unlocked his doors, complying as the complete stranger opened his door and poked around inside. At least said poking around was brief—the glove compartment was popped open, and inside, unmistakable to miss among the (token) insurance papers and a packet of assorted hard candies (also for Michael's blood sugar), was an orange glucagon rescue kit. Respecting his patient's privacy, the EMT shut the glove compartment and closed the Trans AM's door before making a hasty return to the hotel room.
Unbeknownst to him, while he and his partner were administering the patient's injection, the Trans AM had already locked itself once more.
The storm was still in full swing when Michael was loaded onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. Given that Michael was unconscious, and KITT's medical scans found him getting worryingly closer to comatose by the second, neither of them seemed to care if the human got a little wet between the hotel room and the back of the ambulance.
Hearing the doors of the ambulance shut behind Michael would have physically hurt KITT, had he been able to feel pain. Regardless, it seemed so… final—no. He forced the thought away from the active portions of his CPU. The idea of losing Michael was one he would not consider.
The ambulance pulled out of the parking lot and turned left, lights and sirens going at what KITT knew damn good and well were the earmarks of a Code Three. He waited… gave them a one hundred yard lead… and quietly followed, eventually settling himself in a parking spot on the hospital grounds for the night.
~*~*~*~
When Michael came to, it was to a mild headache, an fuzzy space in his short-term memory and a plain white ceiling. Admittedly, the ceiling alone wasn't unusual, as he'd come across many a white ceiling in his life. No the unusual part came from the fact that he could hear a heart rate monitor and there was an IV sticking out of his right hand.
Okay, he was in a hospital… Funny, he didn't feel like he'd gotten the snot kicked out of him recently. A fresh wave of dull tension broke in his head. He winced lightly, rubbing his forehead—wait, was he shaking? Michael held up his hands—he was trembling lightly. He ran his hand through his hair, trying to remember what the hell had happened that landed him in the hospital for a headache and the shakes.
Wait… Now he remembered—his blood sugar had taken a nose dive. He was starting to remember everything, including… Oh yeah. His fight with KITT.
Michael grimaced as he recalled the details of the argument. What was it he had called KITT? A Goddamned, stubborn Trans AM, one he'd told to go to hell and even threatened to give back to the Foundation. That should have been the first sign that something had been amiss with him, Michael thought: the fact that he had threatened to, and indeed seriously considered, get rid of KITT, that the combative nature he got when hypoglycemia reared its ugly head was directed at someone about whom he deeply cared.
And look at what happened. KITT had driven off in a (justifiable) huff, and Michael had been left alone, nearly for dead… and yet he was still alive. He remembered calling KITT, and remembered…
He remembered KITT hauling ass to get back to the hotel, which made Michael want to kick himself. KITT didn't have to care so much. He could have easily ignored him, pretended he didn't have Michael's glucagon, told him to stick his head in the sand for all he cared…
But he didn't. He had rushed back to the hotel, and Michael could only assume it was KITT who had summoned medical help after he had blacked out. To any outside observer, KITT's actions would simply be chalked up to his altruistic nature, to his basic function to protect the life of his driver. But Michael knew better—anyone who wronged KITT in some manner knew it, and it took nothing less than flowers, a tub of Turtle Wax and a heartfelt apology to get back on his good side.
With something akin to mild horror, Michael recalled the last words he and KITT exchanged—Tell you what. You obviously have something up your tailpipe, so here's the plan: To hell with you… Don't bother trying to rectify the situation, or yourself, Michael. You're beyond helping. Not Let's talk about this later or I'm sorry, but go to hell and you're a hopeless case.
Michael wilted against the pillows, feeling like garbage and wondering… He glanced over at the bedside table. Sitting next to phone with his empty glucagon kit and a handful of pocket change was his watch. Perfect. After a brief struggle to get the watch on without disturbing his IV, he pressed the button and whispered hoarsely, "KITT…?"
KITT didn't sleep, not in the traditional sense. The closest thing he had was to remain quiet, with all non-essential systems shut down, and rest.
Right now, though, it didn't matter if he slept or recharged or whatever he chose to call it; he wasn't having much luck with it. Worst-case scenarios were racing through his CPU, each more worrying than the last. He had just imagined how his and Michael's lives would play out if the human walked away with severe brain damage when his comm chirped. Again, Knight, Michael A. flashed on the screen; KITT answered before the first chirps died. Michael? He sounded more hopeful than he ever would have dared to admit.
"KITT… Hey buddy." Michael sounded exhausted, but relieved to hear the Trans AM's vocal modulator.
How are you feeling, Michael? KITT asked, just as relieved to hear Michael's voice again.
"Tired," the human replied truthfully, "but a lot better than I would have if you hadn't called nine one one." There was a thoughtful pause. "Thanks for being there for me, KITT."
It was KITT's turn to pause. I almost wasn't, he admitted softly. Michael, I apologize—
"Don't bother, KITT," Michael cut off. "I'm the one who's sorry." He paused, weighing his next words. "You're right—I do treat you like garbage, and that's completely unacceptable."
KITT would have winced at the memory of his words if he had been capable of it. Michael, I didn't mean that, he began weakly.
"KITT, we both know you don't lie," Michael gently cut off. "Not to me, at least. So… Are you willing to accept an idiot's apology?"
Only if you're willing to accept mine for being stubborn and prideful, KITT replied instantly. He didn't tell Michael that his apologies were always accepted and he was always forgiven.
"You don't have to apologize, KITT," Michael gently insisted. "But if it makes you feel better: apology accepted." There was a pause; when Michael spoke again, KITT could hear his smart aleck grin. "Thanks for telling me I'm not an idiot."
KITT chuckled warmly. But you're my idiot, Michael. Two could play at that game.
The human laughed, honest and open. "Love you too, KITT."
They sat in comfortable silence, KITT in the parking lot and Michael in his hospital bed. Eventually, KITT spoke: Michael, I think we learned something this evening.
"Yeah, KITT?" Michael asked. "What's that?"
To never drive away mad.
-.-.-.-
Title: Never Drive Away Mad
Author: TheCrazyAlaskan
Fandom / Setting: Classic Knight Rider
Characters / Pairings: Michael x KITT
Rating: T
warnings: Medical stuff, dark
Summary: Do not let the sun go down on your anger. – Ephesians 4:26
Commission for
locoexclaimer More exploration of Michael x KITT, with my mind canon of Michael being diabetic coming into play. The basic idea for this was a bunny loco and I were working on; the prompt was “Turpentine Kisses and Mistaken Blows.” We still don’t exactly know what the hell that prompt was asking of us, so we winged it and ended up with the basic idea that Michael and KITT get into a fight about something, KITT drives away mad, and then something bad happens to Michael.
And then I realized I was thinking of glucagon and nine pages later, here we go.
Writing this, I realized… it’s hard to write Michael and KITT fighting. They work so nicely together it’s hard to mess with that.
Also: Yes, the summary is a Bible quote. Deal with it.
Michael Knight, KITT, Knight Rider © Glen A Larson
