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thecrazyalaskanAt first, I wasn't sure what Mr. Miles was thinking when he assigned me to protect His Royal Highness, Duke Michael Arthur Knight, Prince of Cyprivene. God, even the title sounded pretentious. He was flippant and devil-may-care—and he was the prince in waiting for his country? Pity the poor Cyprivenian people that this was their ruler to be.
Still, far be it form my place to complain about the assignment. He was at least an intelligent conversationalist, but had a bad case of wanderlust. We were due to cross the California-Nevada border by the end of our first day, but we barely left the state from him wanting to stop. I really didn't want to, but he was persistent. It took stopping for dinner to placate him. (I tried to count myself lucky that he didn't pitch a fit about it or play up his rank.)
He enjoyed his first meal in America immensely, it would seem. (I smiled appreciatively, but really didn't see the appeal in simple Americana diners situated on the corner of a city block.) It took some convincing, but we eventually left the restaurant and were almost back to the car—
When he just stopped, watching something. Someone, rather: a beggar, leaning against the brick wall of a closed up shop and not really making eye contact with anyone who passed by him. Given that it was still the dinner rush, this was a fair number of people. "KITT, who is that?" he asked me, nodding toward the man.
I shrugged. "I don't know, Your Highness."
His voice dropped to a lower volume, and he switched to his second first language: "Ich fragte Sie nicht mich anzurufen 'Eure Durchlaucht' in der Öffrntlichkeit."
"Es tut mir leid, aber einige Formalitäten eingehalten warden," I replied.
"Wollen Sie mich ermodet zu bekommen?" he pressed.
He did have a point there—calling him by his title was a dead giveaway, plainclothes or no. "Nein, aber—"
"Michael, please," he instructed, his tone softening once more. "Again: who is he?"
"I don't know," I repeated. "Homeless, I presume."
He looked like he was thinking about it for a few minutes; then, suddenly—"Can I have your pocket change?"
"What?" This was about as out of left field as it got…!
"Can I have your pocket change?" he repeated.
"I heard you, but why?" I asked. "Don't you have any?"
He looked at me almost confused. "Princes don't carry money. Now—" He held out his hand—"change?"
"Fein," I replied shortly, digging through the bottom of my handbag, "aber Seine Durchlaucht Veilleicht möchten Sie starten Durchführung einer Brieftasche." The use of his title was very pointed as I thrust the change (all of forty-seven cents) into his hand.
"Thank you," he said. "Wait here—I'll be right back." He started down the street before I could really protest, not that I didn't try. I couldn't do much, not without making a scene at least, so I followed a few steps behind. At first I wasn't sure what he wanted with my loose change. It couldn't buy much—here or in Cyprivene.
As it turned out, he didn't need it to buy anything. No, he walked over to the man on the corner and dropped the change into the paper cup sitting at the man's feet. All I could do was tilt my head and watch from a distance; I still can't read lips very well, but the profuse thanks Michael was receiving (and subsequently politely dismissing) were very clear.
After a few moments, Michael rejoined me. "Okay, now we can leave."
"That was what you wanted the change for?" I asked as we went back to the car.
"What else would I want it for?" he questioned, as if he really couldn't think of anything else to do with pocket change.
I couldn't think of anything, and admitted as much. He nodded, we got in the car and started to drive. It wasn't until we were stopped at a red light that he spoke again: "I've never done that before."
"Hmm?"
"Given money to someone on the street," he elaborated. "At home. I never had money to give them." He chuckled darkly at the irony.
"I'll give you my spare change from now on," I said distractedly, pulling through the intersection.
"Would you?" he asked, perking up.
He looked damnably… hopeful, how could I say anything other than yes?
-.-.-.-
Title: Non-Synonymous
Author: TheCrazyAlaskan
Fandom / Setting: Classic Knight Rider, Secret Agent AU
Characters / Pairings: Michael, KITT (pre-pairing)
Rating: K+
Genre: General
Word Count:
Warnings / Notes: AU. First person POV (KITT). Bunny co-bred with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
locoexclaimer
Summary: Prince is non-synonymous with spoiled and petty.
AU is of my own creation, where Michael is a prince and KITT is his bodyguard. Just some puttering.
...Is KITT too bitchy in this? Be honest. >.>;
Michael, KITT, Knight Rider © Glen A Larson
Secret Agent AU © TheCrazyAlaskan and locoexclaimer
Still, far be it form my place to complain about the assignment. He was at least an intelligent conversationalist, but had a bad case of wanderlust. We were due to cross the California-Nevada border by the end of our first day, but we barely left the state from him wanting to stop. I really didn't want to, but he was persistent. It took stopping for dinner to placate him. (I tried to count myself lucky that he didn't pitch a fit about it or play up his rank.)
He enjoyed his first meal in America immensely, it would seem. (I smiled appreciatively, but really didn't see the appeal in simple Americana diners situated on the corner of a city block.) It took some convincing, but we eventually left the restaurant and were almost back to the car—
When he just stopped, watching something. Someone, rather: a beggar, leaning against the brick wall of a closed up shop and not really making eye contact with anyone who passed by him. Given that it was still the dinner rush, this was a fair number of people. "KITT, who is that?" he asked me, nodding toward the man.
I shrugged. "I don't know, Your Highness."
His voice dropped to a lower volume, and he switched to his second first language: "Ich fragte Sie nicht mich anzurufen 'Eure Durchlaucht' in der Öffrntlichkeit."
"Es tut mir leid, aber einige Formalitäten eingehalten warden," I replied.
"Wollen Sie mich ermodet zu bekommen?" he pressed.
He did have a point there—calling him by his title was a dead giveaway, plainclothes or no. "Nein, aber—"
"Michael, please," he instructed, his tone softening once more. "Again: who is he?"
"I don't know," I repeated. "Homeless, I presume."
He looked like he was thinking about it for a few minutes; then, suddenly—"Can I have your pocket change?"
"What?" This was about as out of left field as it got…!
"Can I have your pocket change?" he repeated.
"I heard you, but why?" I asked. "Don't you have any?"
He looked at me almost confused. "Princes don't carry money. Now—" He held out his hand—"change?"
"Fein," I replied shortly, digging through the bottom of my handbag, "aber Seine Durchlaucht Veilleicht möchten Sie starten Durchführung einer Brieftasche." The use of his title was very pointed as I thrust the change (all of forty-seven cents) into his hand.
"Thank you," he said. "Wait here—I'll be right back." He started down the street before I could really protest, not that I didn't try. I couldn't do much, not without making a scene at least, so I followed a few steps behind. At first I wasn't sure what he wanted with my loose change. It couldn't buy much—here or in Cyprivene.
As it turned out, he didn't need it to buy anything. No, he walked over to the man on the corner and dropped the change into the paper cup sitting at the man's feet. All I could do was tilt my head and watch from a distance; I still can't read lips very well, but the profuse thanks Michael was receiving (and subsequently politely dismissing) were very clear.
After a few moments, Michael rejoined me. "Okay, now we can leave."
"That was what you wanted the change for?" I asked as we went back to the car.
"What else would I want it for?" he questioned, as if he really couldn't think of anything else to do with pocket change.
I couldn't think of anything, and admitted as much. He nodded, we got in the car and started to drive. It wasn't until we were stopped at a red light that he spoke again: "I've never done that before."
"Hmm?"
"Given money to someone on the street," he elaborated. "At home. I never had money to give them." He chuckled darkly at the irony.
"I'll give you my spare change from now on," I said distractedly, pulling through the intersection.
"Would you?" he asked, perking up.
He looked damnably… hopeful, how could I say anything other than yes?
-.-.-.-
Title: Non-Synonymous
Author: TheCrazyAlaskan
Fandom / Setting: Classic Knight Rider, Secret Agent AU
Characters / Pairings: Michael, KITT (pre-pairing)
Rating: K+
Genre: General
Word Count:
Warnings / Notes: AU. First person POV (KITT). Bunny co-bred with
locoexclaimer Summary: Prince is non-synonymous with spoiled and petty.
AU is of my own creation, where Michael is a prince and KITT is his bodyguard. Just some puttering.
...Is KITT too bitchy in this? Be honest. >.>;
Michael, KITT, Knight Rider © Glen A Larson
Secret Agent AU © TheCrazyAlaskan and locoexclaimer
