Even – Knight Rider [Royalty AU], Michael x KITT

[thecrazyalaskan]

Title: Even
Author: fireweed15
Fandom / Setting: Classic Knight Rider — Secret Agent AU
Characters / Pairings: HRH Michael Knight of Cyprivene x Katherine "Kitt" Knight
Word Count: 1237
Rating: T
Warnings / Notes: Written for Round XI of the Hurt / Comfort Bingo: Bodyguards; prompt from Whumpster-Dumpster on Tumblr

Hashtag Throwback Fandom, hot damn!

My love for this man and his car (personified as the strong, intelligent, occasionally exasperated, lovely person he comes to fall in love with) is undying

– – –
 

Katherine Knight—affectionately nicknamed Kitt by her charge—was a cautious woman, or she liked to think of herself as one. It was why she made such a good agent with the Foundation, and why she'd been selected to guard the visiting Cyprivenian prince, and thus aforementioned charge, His Royal Highness Michael Knight (no relation). Despite the title and the fact that he was coming into a throne soon, he was down to earth and amiable and had a sense of humor she had to admit that she appreciated, and he fully enjoyed engaging with both the average American citizen and his bodyguard. All in all, it was a great assignment.

At least until the intrafamily conflict that arose when his father had named him, the younger son, heir apparent in lieu of his older brother, came to light, and then bubbled over into—

"Geht's dir gut?" There was no denying the vague surrealness that came of seeing His Highness—Michael, a concession she'd only make mentally—not just in the passenger seat but driving. He was good, of course, but it was just odd.

"I'm fine, Your Highness." It couldn't be any worse than the absolute disaster they'd just escaped…

"Considering that we just got shot at," he pointed out, taking an exit from the highway to a two lane stretch of asphalt that bisected the desert, "I think you can drop the formalities for now."

"No thank you," she replied evenly, sitting up a little straighter and eyeing the rearview mirror. Nothing behind them but a cloud of dust. "You weren't kidding when you said your brother wanted to kill you."

Michael chuckled without humor. "Now you understand why I said you were lucky to not have siblings."

She hmm-ed vaguely, not quite ready to own up to anything yet. At the same time, the Trans AM hit a sudden dip in the road, jostling both passengers. White hot pain blossomed in Kitt's side, and she drew a sharp breath, her hand flying to her left side. "Fuck—!"

Michael looked at her in a way she could only describe as stunned. "Where did that come from?"

"Es ist nichts—" She started to deny everything, almost instinctive, before a second wave of pain took her breath away. More to the point, though—why was her whole side so… wet? And sticky?

"Are you bleeding?" Her gaze darted to Michael's, his expression changing from stunned to outright concerned.

"I can't be, I didn't get… hit…" Her protests died on her tongue when she pulled her hand back and found it wet with blood. "What the hell—"

"Are you sure about that?" he asked, reaching over to pull aside her blazer and assess the damage. The red stain was spreading rapidly.

"I would have noticed getting shot." Only Kitt could make it sound so matter of fact. "…Unless of course the bullet—"

"Ricocheted?" he finished.

The thought was a sobering one, and she nodded shakily. "Right—" The car dipped with another pothole, and she pressed her hand to the wound again, blood welling up between her fingers. "Fuck—!"

Michael shook his head, hitting the breaks as smoothly as possible and throwing the Trans AM into reverse. "We're getting back on the highway—I'm taking you to a hospital."

"Don't—" she warned, leaning over and taking the gearshift in hand. "He's going to assume he hit at least one of us, and a hospital is the first place he's going to send people to look."

He brought his hand down on top of hers, just for a moment as he put the car back in drive. "So what are we supposed to do?" he pressed, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

Kitt tipped her head back, taking deep measured breaths—focusing her thoughts and trying to steady herself against the white hot pain blooming in her side. "Do you have steady hands, Your Highness?"

Michael's brow furrowed but he nodded in confirmation. "I think I do, yeah."

She nodded as well. "Good, good—and ahh… how squeamish are you?

✧ ✧ ✧

They were reasonably certain that this motel wasn't going to be on any roadmap published in the last thirty years, which instantly made it more appealing. The room was dusty and dark paneled, but clean enough—Kitt, woozy from pain (pain, not blood loss she insisted as she was bodily helped from the car), certainly wasn't going to complain.

"I'm assuming you have a plan for this?" Michael asked, watching Kitt with concern.

"If it makes you feel better, you only have to suture the wound," she offered, dropping a first aid kit from the trunk on the bed and gingerly shrugging off her jacket. As she moved to unclasp her shoulder holster, her vision tinged white as a wave of pain washed over her anew—her fingers faltered, and she swayed dangerously on her feet.

"Hey, hey—take it easy." Michael caught her by the shoulders, steadying her for a moment before guiding her to the closer of the beds. "Now—" He paused to finish unfastening the holster and eased it off her frame. "What do you want me to do?"

"This isn't exactly something I can patch up myself, Your Highness," she pointed out, waving a hand at the bright red stain on her blouse. "I know it's inappropriate—"

"Don't even think about 'appropriate,'" he replied, waving the words aside and shrugging out of his own jacket (pleather, an impulse buy that Kitt had yet to understand) and tossing it on a nearby chair. "If you talk me through it—"

"Understood," she confirmed, pulling up her shirttail enough to expose her side.

Michael winced in sympathy pain as he looked over the injury—the ricochet was such that the bullet had only grazed her, but it was undeniably deep enough for her assessment of sutures to be an accurate one. "No pressure, right?"

"Of course not."

✧ ✧ ✧

"Bad news," Michael announced, emerging from the bathroom. "The blouse is a lost cause." He held it up, wet from the faucet and the stain in the side faded but only marginally.

Kitt lifted her head, moving as little as possible. "I can live with that," she replied. "Maybe write it off as a work expense."

The comment had been meant as a joke, but the response to it was… oddly subdued. Her brow furrowed slightly as she lifted her head again, moving gingerly to avoid bothering the new sutures and watching as Michael sat on the threadbare armchair opposite the bed. "Is something bothering you, Your Highness?"

"This is my fault," he said at length, running a hand through his hair.

"The blouse is hardly a loss," she said, waving her hand.

He shook his head. "The fact that you got hurt."

"I'm your bodyguard," she stressed. "It's in my job description."

"That doesn't make it feel right," he stressed. "I never wanted anyone on my staff to get involved in the drama—and I certainly never wanted you to get hurt."

Ahh. There was another reason that she enjoyed this assignment—he was, if nothing, incredibly thoughtful, constantly aware of his place in the world and how it differed so greatly from others'. "Well, look at it this way," she offered bracingly. "I protected you from assassination, you protected me from infection. I'd say that puts us at even."

Despite the somberness of the afternoon, this at least garnered a slight smile from him. "Sure."