#Bonnie barstow

[ohmystarrynight]

I always giggle at how the moment KITT is off his wheels, he just. Sulks? And whines?? Like, what did you expect? I laugh but feel bad because he wants down :P

Uh oh mom intervened…………. Thank you anon you’ve inspired this comic. He HATES being picked up!! Put him down!!

Bonus: Kitts just short. Sorry team.

[im-a-doctor-not-a-priest]

my quest to find the silliest Knight Rider pictures part 1

[girlwiththegreenhat]

kitt has two moms and that's very cool of him

[poisonheadcrabsalesman]

Homebodies

An artfight attack on @bellygunnr! Knight Rider but make them lesbians. Takes place after the episode "Halloween Knight". Also on ao3

-

Devon had been quite upset that Bonnie was so keen on staying at the apartment after the murder had come to light. In some ways it made sense, why stay in an apartment that had so many bad memories? Why stay where she was unsure of herself? 

The same question was why she needed distance from the Knight Foundation. She needed space, to think, to breathe, to consider her next step. It was her choice. He didn’t push after their conversation but she could see how his eyes examined the bags under hers – hear the strain in her voice. Bonnie was tired of it all. Tired of the nightmares, tired of the Foundation getting its claws into her work. Tired of the strange guilt of watching Michael –resurrected and sent out again and again with KITT– only for them both to limp back to their broken home to lick their wounds. And have her fix them up to send them back out into danger.

So Bonnie left. 

The apartment slowly became more like a home. Her effects scattered about in what one could describe as on purpose or fashionable – if they only had half working eyes. She was an engineer, so order came in the form of controlled chaos. Only her tools were organized by job, size, and color on what in most places would be a dining table. Hers was littered with fine tweezers, a wrench and oil stained cloth, and magnified glasses for the intricate work of creating a mind from metal.

The more personal belongings she owned were in her room, which was still incredibly spartan. Her degrees, some books, an old blanket, and her clothes still half unpacked. Her apartment walls were blank and sounds echoed eerily sometimes, but she was still settling in. There was a postcard Michael had insisted was KITT's idea on her fridge. Next to it was a shopping list in Michael’s messy scrawl as well, from the last time she dropped by to play house and check up on Bonnie.

Michael Knight had gasped at the state of her fridge as all 6'4 of her gangly frame squeezed into Bonnie’s tiny kitchen and rummaged through her barren shelves. She was so upset by her pantry that she called KITT on her watch as a witness. KITT was kind enough to side with Bonnie for a moment before Michael went on a tirade and uttered an aggressive “okay pal!” into her wrist.

So sue her! She'd gotten busy and hadn't been shopping in a week! Bonnie had heavier things weighing on her mind, and didn’t need Michael swaggering in, oozing saccharine charm and worrying about her with her voice all low and quiet. Genuine concern coming from Michael rankled her, and she wished the older woman didn’t get under her skin so much. Still, it was a sight to see her back in her apartment. Michael had nearly smacked her head as she emerged from the fridge and part of her almost wished she would.

She appeared alien in Bonnie’s apartment, bringing too much movement and life into her empty, haunted space. Out of place and on her nerves, Michael would only temporarily be cowed by her expression. Bonnie had gotten annoyed at her latest escapades and how damaged she'd gotten KITT on the Foundation's business. Then she had the nerve to look hurt and started whining about how she'd done his best. Bonnie fixed her with a look when she had set her hands on her hips and glared back at her for all of two seconds before she turned tail and scampered off back into the kitchen. 

KITT’s voice carried from Michael’s watch, but all Bonnie could make out was “-a tactical retreat, yes, of course, Michael.”

There had been a quiet cacophony of noise from the tiny galley kitchen and the whispered mutterings of scheming going on, but Bonnie was too tired to investigate or play host to the spectacle that was Michael Knight. She had made her comments and left sometime after Bonnie resettled at the table and gotten busy with her work. 

The apartment had quieted again and Bonnie tried not to hate herself for hating it. 

She failed then, and she failed at not hating herself for the joy she felt when Michael returned with her arms full of brown paper bags overflowing with groceries. Bonnie hadn’t been able to react beyond a startled look as Michael stumbled in like a wounded gazelle with a wild look in her eyes. Her hair was wild and the lines on her face crinkled as she beamed at Bonnie. Some inane one-liner was on her lips and Bonnie’s only saving grace was that the bottom of the bags were giving out so Michael had to flee into the kitchen instead of delivering it. And Bonnie hated that she missed the sound of her voice.

It wouldn't do to dwell on it. Michael was a stray cat coming to her for attention and affection in the form of their spats while Bonnie patched up her or KITT. Lanky, scarred, and overly friendly, one might think she didn’t know any better, but Michael was fiercely loyal once she decided you were worth her time.

That thought caused a tightness in Bonnie’s chest and she decided to ignore it and get back to her latest project. It was still one that benefited Michael, but at least she could turn her thoughts toward KITT instead. She lost herself in her work quickly enough at her table-turned-workstation when she was once again interrupted by Michael.

Bonnie had noticed her swagger in with something in her hands out of the corner of her eye, but ignored her. She knew to wait or ignore Michael. If she needed something, she’d make it known – one way or another. Then, proving Bonnie right, in typical Michael Knight fashion, she cleared her throat and waited for Bonnie’s response as she looked all too pleased with herself. It was only then that Bonnie realized she smelled something delicious and that her stomach realized too and roared its anger at her ignorance of her own needs.

Michael just stood there, grin on her face, hip cocked to the side, and a kitchen towel over her shoulder as plates of food steamed in his hands. Her hair was haloed by the fluorescents on the ceiling and her eyes crinkled as her smile broadened. The tightness returned and Bonnie’s throat had to remember how words worked.

“What?”

“What do you mean ‘what?’ You're a rocket scientist, can't you put it together?” Michael sauntered closer with the plates. Bonnie could tell the towel on her shoulder was new. How much had she gotten at the store?

Bonnie had glared up at her and the smug bastard had just continued grinning with only the tiniest crack in her cool facade. She set the food down a polite distance from Bonnie’s work and straddled the chair opposite her in the most inelegant way. It was like watching a deer slide on ice and not fall, but only barely. Her focus shifted when she aggressively stabbed at the food, breaking her reverie.

“I didn't have any sausage.” She said intelligently as she stared down at the food. Bonnie didn't have the energy or mental processing power to pick at her.

“You didn't have any milk, eggs, or bread either, but me and KITT fixed that.” Michael shook her head as she talked. Grinning at her, egging her on. The same song and dance they would play at the Foundation’s workshop except now in the sterile fluorescent of her half-empty apartment. An apartment that was warmed by the mere thought of Michael stopping by to crash on the couch.

A smile nearly formed on Bonnie’s face, but she tamped down the urge. “I’m not a rocket scientist. I’m an engineer.”

“Apologies.” Michael responded, in what was a terrible impression of KITT’s accent. “I do hope breakfast for dinner is suitable for you as an engineer. Us regular folks eat at 24 hour diners and miss the grease sometimes.”

At the mention of grease, Bonnie remembered to wipe her hands on a rag on the table before she grabbed the cutlery. The food was good, she thought. She was not impressed. It was just a nice, if overblown gesture for Michael to make eggs, sausage, pancakes, and hashbrowns.

“You got a lil–” Michael reached for her, and to both of their surprise, Bonnie let her. 

Let her warm fingertips wipe the smudge of grease off her cheek, right below her eye. Let the small moment pass with a lingering touch that felt like a brand. 

“Thank you.” Bonnie said, much too quietly.

Michael sat back and grinned again. She never seemed to stop smiling when Bonnie was looking at her. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Both of them hungrier than they realized. The sun had long since set. Bonnie eyed Michael’s bag by the door, sitting there like a dog unsure if it was welcome. She cleared her throat and sipped some water to buy herself some time.

Michael had whipped her head up at the sound of Bonnie’s voice. Her eyes wide and eager. Her whole body tense in faux nonchalance.

“I want to work on KITT tomorrow.” Bonnie started.

Michael deflated ever so slightly, but hid it well as she leaned her chin on her hand.

“Are you staying the night or will I need to find you at some motel?” Bonnie asked, less heat than she wanted. The barb slid harmlessly off Michael as her grin grew and she stood to clear their dishes from the table.

“I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome–” Bonnie snorted a laugh “--but if you want me to stay…”

“Watch it, Knight.” Bonnie said as she watched Michael slink into the kitchen again. It was becoming a familiar sight. 

“Yes, ma’am.” Michael saluted from around the corner, “Wouldn’t dream of any funny business. Not in front of Dr. Barstow.”

Bonnie groaned and threw a screwdriver in her direction. Michael laughed as she ducked and it clattered harmlessly on the linoleum. 

“I do so enjoy your sleepovers, but please keep it down. Some of us are trying to get some sleep.” KITT called from Michael’s watch.

[bonbonzzz]

Need to get back into drawing KR stuff again. But will I? Probably not.

[bellygunnr]

Saturated the Floorboards, past the Carpet

Bonnie stares at you, a little too alert to have just been sleeping, her hair pulled back into too sharp a bun. She’s in sleep clothes all the same, though you spy dried ink and paint on her finger tips that she tucks into her palms a moment later, teeth clicking as she shuffles in place. Her shoulders are drawn up tight, muscles in her jaw standing out in prolonged tension. You nearly ask her what’s wrong, then think better of it.

You know what’s wrong. You’re the problem-- and the murder, maybe, no matter if time has passed since then. Bonnie probably thinks about it still, if she hasn’t convinced herself it was a fever-addled dream. You wouldn’t blame her if she did, actually. You wonder if you should ask her why she didn’t just move away.

“It’s late, Michael,” Bonnie says. “What are you doing here?”

“Maybe it’s just early,” you try, smiling. “KITT and me are off the clock, thought we’d stop by…”

That’s not the whole of it, but you’re not lying. You haven’t been sent on a case in a week or so, but you’d taken your time hopping back across the country anyway, reluctant to come home to debriefs and business. Then KITT hadn’t seen Bonnie for anything recreational in awhile. Then you remembered you got a little stabbed at some bar in fucking Utah a couple days ago and, well.

“Just get in here.”

She retreats into her apartment. You duck inside, immediately casing the place, scoping out the changes from when you were last here. There’s a vase of flowers on the coffee table-- several more, actually, in just immediate sight-- and the last of the moving boxes are gone. The television plays quietly but you don’t recognize what’s playing.

“Lotta flowers. What’s the occasion?”

You trail after her into the kitchen. She rattles around her cupboards, sleeves sliding down her arms as she reaches for a tea kettle on the top shelf.

“Norman. Apparently, he’s a groundskeeper of sorts. Keeps bringing me clippings from the courtyard. Tea?”

Ah, Norman. You haven’t yet apologized for shaking him down.

“You know he has a crush on you?” You can’t help but mention it, sliding in to fill the empty space beside Bonnie. “And sure, I’ll take tea.”

“I do know that,” she chuckles. “But we’ve talked it out. It’s fine. Chamomile okay?”

“Absolutely,” you say very seriously, drawing out the third syllable.

“Good. It’s all I have.”

She moves around you, only meeting your eye when your elbows brush. She puts the kettle on before grabbing the mugs, then nudges you aside to get at a folding box nestled beside the microwave. From there, she produces two little teabags, gripping them by their brightly colored tags. This close, you can see the bags under her eyes, the slight shake to her posture.

You resist the urge to touch her.

“You doin’ alright, Bonnie?” You say softly, unable to stifle your concern.

The mugs clink against the counter top. The stovetop clicks away, merrily trying to boil the kettle. Bonnie drops her head, a momentary lapse in vigilance.

“I’m fine, Michael. Just-- a touch of insomnia. I’ll get over it.”

Your left thigh is a dull ache from the knife. Bonnie looks like she’s aching all over despite her clean, polished edges, too neat for the safety of her own home. You reach out slowly, bringing your open hand to rest atop her shoulder instead of clasping it, gentle, restraint eroded.

She startles, then relaxes, giving you a bemused look. Her muscles bunch tightly when she rolls her sleeves up high. The kitchen light brings her stained hands into sharp relief.

“Working on something?”

“Something like that. Unfortunately, I can’t really tell you anything. It’s classified,” she says, voice lilting like it’s a joke. “S’why I haven’t been at the estate for a bit. Not-- that you’d know that,” she adds, frowning. “Did you two just get back in town tonight?”

You rub at her shoulder idly while she talks. You have no idea what she does outside of FLAG, aside from her brief stint in San Francisco. Classified, though-- that’s interesting. That sounds above even Devon’s pay grade.

“Maybe,” you say, chancing a grin. “Straight out of Utah. Why? Worried about me?”

“Hardly,” she scoffs. “I hope you didn’t plan on crashing here--”

“I’d never be so presumptuous,” you mock, throwing your hands wide in a placating gesture and leaning back. Your weight rolls onto your bad foot, sending pain zinging down your leg. You bite back a hiss. “I was gonna fetch a hotel. I just-- we just-- wanted to see you.”

You can’t save face. Not with KITT’s feelings on the line, nor yours. You drop your hands, letting the early-late hour bog you down. Now that Bonnie’s mentioned it, the ten-some hours you’ve spent driving are starting to take their toll, drawing out the cramps that KITT’s seats inspire.

Bonnie’s expression softens, but the kettle shrieks. You arrange the mugs and tea bags for her to pour the hot water over, humming as heat leeches out of the ceramic into your finger tips. Her grip seems a little steadier than before.

Carefully, once the tea is poured and steeped, you both creep to the sofa where the television is flickering and the flower vase casts odd shadows. The cushions practically crumple underneath your weight. Your thigh twinges, a burst of pain radiating up and down your side.

“You’re bleeding, you know,” Bonnie says suddenly, face hidden behind her mug of tea.

You raise your eyebrows, delay your response by taking a long drink. It’s herbal and bitter and green-tasting. KITT would probably enjoy it, but less so if you gave him a day-old teabag to analyze. It’s not the thought that counts with him.

“I am?” You get out, glancing down.

The light in the apartment is low, but you can see what she’s talking about. A dark blot of red in the swell of your jeans. That explains the persistent ache and the strange tacky dampness that’s been following you for the past ten minutes. You hurry to your feet, suddenly embarrassed, worried that you’ll bleed all over her couch.

“Shoot! You got a first aid kit anywhere?”

Bonnie rolls her eyes. She’s already on her feet and moving, beckoning you along with a wave of her hand like you’re a particularly unruly dog. A part of you is surprised that she’s not more alarmed-- or worried-- but it is two in the morning. You can barely muster up the energy to be anything more than inconvenienced.

Her bathroom is as cramped as you remember it. A glorified closet with a bathtub inside it. You watch her rifle through the compartment behind the mirror from just outside, favoring your bad leg for the first time tonight. She doesn’t speak, mouth drawn into a focused line, only humming when she finds what she’s looking for. She tosses you a chunky plastic box stamped with a red cross that you catch with one hand.

“I’ll be out in the living room. Let me know if you need anything,” Bonnie says, voice clipped, at odds with her slightly pained smile.

It’s only after she pushes past you that you remember-- she can’t stand the sight of blood.

---

Approximately twenty minutes later, you’re wandering back out into her living room. She’s leaned onto the arm of the couch, a dense book nestled between her hands and legs, mugs steaming on the coffee table. You linger at the threshold between hallway and open space, suddenly so aware of the silence your heartbeat pounds in your throat. She licks her thumb to turn a page.

“I didn’t get anything on your couch, right?” You ask quietly.

Bonnie shakes her head without looking up. You return to the couch, settling just beside her. The mugs are full again, filled with a darker liquid. You won’t drink this batch.

“Want to try going to bed?”

You’re tired now that the novelty of being here is gone. Granted, the dreary reality of having a stab wound also saps what little energy you had left. But you know she’s just as exhausted-- she’d startled when you came near. You have a feeling she’d never been the jumpy sort before.

Bonnie closes her book with a solid fwip. Her fingers drag across the elaborate hardcover, nails catching on the raised embossing. The bags under her eyes seem to have deepened and grown more intense while you were gone. She shrugs half-heartedly.

You’re again possessed of the urge to touch her. To hold her. You rub your hands together to try and alleviate the feeling.

“I’ll keep watch, if you sleep,” you say, low and urging.

She looks at you sharply, listless fatigue suddenly calculating. The muscles in her jaw twitch with the grind of teeth. You drop your gaze demurely, frightened that you misread her countenance and she’s taken umbrage with it, despite her temper being usually KITT-oriented. But this isn’t the Foundation, or the trailer, or work, so you truthfully have no idea how to read her, or how she’ll behave.

Her eyes dim slowly from their alertness. She sinks down into her side of the couch, tension easing out of her bunched up shoulders, a table-side lamp casting long shadows across her face and chest. You watch her uncertainly, mouth thinning into a fine line. Her book is discarded to the floor. A slip of striped paper falls out of it.

“Do you keep watch for KITT, too?” She asks in amusement, head tilted back, eyes closed.

She hefts her legs up, drapes them over yours. You wring your hands, frozen with a long-buried recollection. Stevie used to come home and do exactly this-- lay in your lap and rest her eyes. You painstakingly lower your hands over Bonnie’s calves, lungs tight.

“Sometimes. Did you know he sleeps?”

KITT denies it, of course.

“It’s not sleeping, per se,” Bonnie starts, but you interrupt her.

“He dreams, Bonnie,” you say softly. “Did you know that?”

It’s not just dreams. It’s night terrors, violent enough to match your own. Fitfully, you start running the flat of your hands across her legs, cursing yourself for your loose tongue and weakened resolve. Her muscles flex beneath your hands until her foot is jabbing your stomach insistently. You push it away reflexively, staring at her.

She stares back. Her exhaustion has drawn to a fine point of grim apprehension and despair.

“We can talk about it in the morning, Michael,” she says. “Okay…?”

You nod slowly. Tension leeches out of her all at once. The couch creaks as she sinks into it, eyes now fixed on the ceiling, arms crossing loosely over her stomach. Absently, you continue running your hands over her pants, restless with anxiety and nerves.

You didn’t mean to tell her about KITT. You’re not sure what you’ll do when you find out what she thinks.

But she falls asleep first. The lights are still on, your painkillers haven’t kicked in yet. Exhaustion bears down on you just as heavily, so you sink deeper into the couch until your neck has a modicum of support. You’ll wake up with one hell of a crick, but it’s worth Bonnie dozing off so handily, either soothed by your presence or worn out by your antics. Either option works.

Eventually, you doze off, too, but not before whispering a quiet good night into the half-dark.

[suzcatonmars]

Land of Confusion

Chapter 17: To Catch a KARR

Michael, Cort and Bonnie brainstorm their next move against Garthe and KARR.

[timeguardians]

I slept here all night. I couldn't leave you. (Bonnie x Michael) @avictimofthejazz

No matter how many times a man cheats death, eventually he runs out luck. Michael almost tapped the well dry when he decided to jump out of KITT, and chase a suspect over ground too rough for the Trans-Am to handle.

The fact that the suspect even picked this area should have been a red flag, warning Michael to just call the police on the guy instead of bringing the loser in himself. The creep climbed like a mountain goat, practically scaling up the side of a seemingly sheer wall in just a few moves. While Michael tried to find the hewn-out steps his opponent must have used the man dropped a load of rocks down on the persistent agent.

By all rights of the universe, Michael should have died in that ravine. The doctors attributed his near-miraculous survival with the fact that the ground under him was soft, and when he first heard the rocks falling, he threw himself into a bush. Both natural allies cushioned the blows enough that he received plenty of blunt-force injuries, but none serious enough to kill him.

All of these conversations with serious-looking medical professionals had been carried on over Michael’s bed without the agent’s knowledge. He had been unconscious for almost three days, stable but unwilling to wake up until his body sorted out how to deal with these new injuries.

That had been almost two weeks ago now, and this morning the doctors cleared him to return to the Foundation under strict supervision, and an order for plenty of bedrest. Not that Michael had been bored, of course. His charming personality, and mile-wide grin had earned him friends all over the Foundation, so he had a constant stream of people dropping in, or keeping him company for an hour or so. KITT, though down in the garage, also checked in regularly during the day, and even sympathetically provided Michael with the betting spreads for baseball that week.

Bonnie though, she did not come to visit until rather late in the evening. Part of Michael assumed she could not find a stopping place for her work until then, A smaller part of him wondered if she was trying to avoid the gossip that might come from her being seen stopping by his room earlier in the day. If that was her goal, though, she has just blown it out of the water in colossal fashion.

Bonnie starts uncurling herself from the chair she had settled into as he gingerly pulls himself upright in bed. He still manages to flash a charming grin at her when she justifies her presence. “You know Bonnie, if you wanted to spend the night all you had to do was ask. I would have scooted over for you.” Despite his teasing, he is touched that Bonnie decided to stay with him, and make sure he made it through the night safely. She could have easily said her good-byes and returned to her own apartment hours ago, instead of curling up in the armchair in his room, and trying to catch forty winks there.

________________________________________

Languid limbs stiffly sprawl outwards in the form of a stretch. Muscles that had been hopelessly scrunched into the chair SCREAMED their distaste. She recoils, only to stretch more gingerly the second time. A yawn, ill-surpressed, rumbles free of the mechanic who, found herself in the direst need of coffee. Operating things sans Knight had made her life all the more complicated. Charles Wallyburton was far less savory to both Bon and Kitt's pallets.

Bon blinks several times in momentary surprise; as one oft does waking in a newish place. Of course, she has spent enough time at the Foundation that this room was not entirely foreign.

Turquoise orbs shift further at the movement across the way, stemming from the hospital bed. "Michael?" She rasps, the rapture of sleep not entirely departing from the low chord of her voice. Then, she is rendered more awake. This time with a twinge of worry. "You -- okay?"

However, the expression painted upon his countenance is not one of exceeding pain. No, it's far too jovial for that. He's championing that almost INSUFFERABLE grin. A grin she DOES LOVE, despite being hellbent on denying her love for it. As much as she will not say it, seeing him awake and smiling FLOODS her with relief. A relief that must be quite evident upon her laxing features.

With a soft exhale, she rises further. Her hands furiously attempting to make right the tangles in her own brunette strands. Michael speaks, just as she's about to open her own mouth. "You must be feeling better, if you're concerned about my comfort." She teases him, though the thought of spending the night in his arms was not as disliked as it ought to have been. "Would you have slept more comfortably like that?" She prods. His limbs are far longer than her's, and far more bruised from his latest DAREDEVIL heroics.

"How's that head of your's anyways?" Bon softly presses. He'd taken a god number of lumps from the accident.

With the ache in her back, the brunette stretches again as she attempts to haggardly stand upright. It seems accordioning to fit on the cushion of the chair had done her no favors.

"Ca- can I bring you breakfast and some coffee before I had to the garage?" Wallyburrton was a notorious late riser. For that, today, she is grateful. It would allow her to delay just a bit longer with her favorite co-worker.

[knight-rider-fan-2000]

Mutuality

Summary: Kitt freezes during situations that Michael is sure an AI touted to be smarter than he is shouldn't be freezing in. Michael takes this complaint to Bonnie and eventually to Kitt himself.

(Takes place early season 1)

Word count: 1774

“Bonnie, could you take a look at Kitt’s. . . I don’t know, situational awareness?”

Bonnie gave Michael a rather strange look and stood up from her chair. The debrief was over anyway, (Devon having just left), so it would make sense for her to be leaving, but the timing still felt threatening.

“What do you mean?” She asked.

“Oh, just uh, something out during the last mission.”

“Like what?”

Okay, so maybe he’d skimped the full extent of the danger during his recount of mission events. “Well, you see, Kitt and I ended up off the roadway. We were racing towards certain doom for me and he seemed to. . . freeze up. I’m lucky I thought of a way to stop our momentum before we reached the cliffside. Isn’t he programmed to protect me from accidents?”

“A cliffside? How steep was the incline down to it?”

“Steep, trust me.”

“Too steep for the brakes?”

“Oh, definitely.”

“And you’re saying that Kitt wasn’t responding?”

“Well, he was, but he was only saying things like ‘look at that cliff’ and ‘that fall will kill you’. Real helpful stuff!” Michael snapped. “You said this car would protect me and he has so far, but if this kinda thing keeps up, I can’t be so sure anymore. So fix him, would you?”

Bonnie let her mouth fall open, before fixing her expression into a glare. “First of all, don’t use that tone with me.”

“Well sorry, but when my life is on the line-!”

“Second of all, you don’t know the full story, so before you go blaming Kitt for not being omniscient, why don’t you think long and hard about how you can prevent yourself from hurtling off cliffs in the future!”

Bonnie stormed from the office. Michael didn’t follow. Instead, he lingered around the main office. He’d already been settled into this new job for a few months now, but the mansion still held many surprises and interesting choices of decor. Not that he was that interested in furniture, but it was better than following too close to the fuming mechanic.

Eventually, though, his comm beeped. He answered it.

“Michael, could you come down to the garage for a moment?” Kitt’s voice came through.

“Is Bonnie asking for me?” 

“No, Bonnie isn’t here right now, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Michael ended the call. He paused for a good, long moment before he made his way to the main garage. Sure enough, Kitt was telling the truth. Bonnie was gone, leaving Kitt sitting alone, glimmering under the harsh ceiling lights.

“There you are. There’s a chair on the left for you, or you can sit inside my cabin. Whichever you prefer.” Kitt greeted him.

Michael forgot his anger for a moment and almost snorted at the idea of the chair. He shook his head and gestured to the driver door. Kitt opened it without a word and Michael slid in.

“Bonnie told me that you needed to be informed in greater detail of my abilities, specifically my processing capabilities, but first I wanted to apologize.”

Kitt’s interior lights were dimmed somehow, and Michael wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not. Either way, it made him feel guilty in a way that he didn’t understand. He found the button for controlling the dash lights and adjusted the interior back to its usual glow. 

“Apologize for what?”

“I’d been meaning to apologize ever since the incident, I just wasn’t sure how. I wasn’t sure how angry you would be and I was hoping that if I didn’t mention it, you would forget about it. You haven’t. Most dangers in your life you seem to ignore, but this one has rattled you more than you let on.” 

“We were hurtling off a cliff and you didn’t do a thing about it.”

“Which leads me into this discussion,” Kitt’s interior lights dimmed me again, “about my capabilities.”

“Did Bonnie fix you up?”

“There was nothing to fix. I’m operating exactly as I was intended to. Therein lies the problem. I’ll try not to get too technical, but Bonnie and I believe that helping you understand how it is that I operate will prevent further misunderstandings on missions.”

“So she put you up to this. She couldn’t even chew me out herself?”

“No, I was the one who suggested the idea.” Kitt said forcefully. “Bonnie did want to ‘chew you out’, as you say, but I didn’t want her to. You’re perfectly within reason for being upset at me and you deserve to know why. May I explain?”

Michael blinked once at the center console. In all their time together so far, Kitt never conceded to anything, at least never without significant arguing or teasing. After a few more moments of silence, he realized Kitt was waiting for his approval. He nodded.

Kitt wasted no time. “My operating system is heavily reliant on something called advanced machine learning. In essence, it allows me to learn from experience, similar to how a human would. It also allows me to react to situations outside of any programmed parameters, drawing on any relevant prior experiences to make the correct judgment.”

“Okay, yeah, you think like a human. Got it.” He nodded again.

“No, I don’t.” Kitt contradicted. “I think like a computer, because I am a computer. Such a learning matrix simply allows me to be constantly rewriting myself to fit with the situation at hand.”

“Sounds busy.” Michael cracked an attempt to lighten the mood, but Kitt did not seem to register his comment at all.

“Michael, I draw from previous experience and current inputs in order to make decisions. If one of those two things are lacking, then. . .”

Kitt’s voice faded out, something which disturbed Michael. He fought to suppress a shiver, and, before he knew it, he put a hand on the steering wheel.

“If one of those two things are lacking,” Kitt started again, “I can’t effectively respond to the situation at hand. I’m compromised. That’s what happened on our way to the cliffside the other day.”

Michael didn’t know what to say. He’d always known that he was the better one at improvisation, and that Kitt was a horrible guesser sometimes, but this. . . this didn’t seem right.

“I’m programmed with a variety of parameters to which I can rely on in a dangerous situation, but like any other computer, I’m limited to the oversight of my programmer in those scenarios.” Kitt’s voice tried to regain a more clinical tone, but it still grew quieter in volume. 

“. . . I see.” 

“I’ve gotten Bonnie to print out a manual that further details the exacts of my automated responses. I want you to read it so you know how I will respond in certain scenarios. Being prepared for my-”

“Kitt, I know you.” Michael interrupted. 

The AI was silent for a moment. “Knowing how I operate will-”

Michael couldn’t place it, but the way Kitt was talking about himself as if he was just another computer was just flat-out incorrect, so he spat, “No, I know you!”

Kitt’s voice modulator froze mid-flash before resuming its normal resting position. Michael put his other hand on the steering wheel and grasped it firmly.

“I don’t need to read about you in some manual,” he sighed, “because I know you. You’re my car. And now that we’ve had this little chat, I know a little bit more, so I’ll be prepared for next time.”

“But Michael, I don’t understand. My limitations put you in danger. Surely you’d want to know of all the other circumstances where my behavior could threaten your well-being?”

The words hurt worse than a well-placed gut punch, and Michael suddenly realized how stupid he’d been.

“You’re not a threat to me. If anything, my own human stupidity puts us in danger more than anything.” Michael lowered his hands from the steering wheel. “And just because you think a different way doesn’t mean it’s bad, or putting me in danger, or anything.”

“Go on.”

“I mean, you understand things and do things that I can’t wrap my head around. It’s the same for you then, right?”

“Correct, but-”

“Then it isn’t fair to ask you to be like I am. You’ve had to catch up on all my ‘human’ stuff; who’s to say I can’t adapt to all your. . .” Michael vaguely gestured to Kitt’s dashboard, “this.”

“Is that feasible? I mean, you’re certainly not my technician.”

“Partners cover each others’ weaknesses.” The assertion spilled out of Michael’s mouth before he even had a chance to think about it.

“I’m not supposed to have any.”

“Hey, I have to stay useful somehow.”

“I never meant to imply you weren’t.”

“Good! I’d have started to feel real out-classed if you did.” Michael patted the dashboard. “You’ve got my back, and I’ve got yours. Good chat?”

Kitt hummed. “Yes, Michael. ‘Good chat’.”

Michael smiled. He reached for the door handle, but before he could grab it the door opened the perfect amount to allow him to slide out. At some point, Kitt has learned his preference. Michael now wondered if there were little things about Kitt that he could learn in return. They were partners, after all, even if the idea of being partnered with a car still sat somewhat awkward in his head.

He paused in the doorway out of the garage and looked back at the black Trans Am. The molecular something-or-another bounced the light right off of its surface, but if he squinted he could perhaps see a bit of a smudge just off the hood.

“Say, you like getting waxed, right? Do cars like wax?”

“I don’t need such care. My molecular-bonded shell will never get a scratch.”

“Didn’t answer my question. Would you like it?”

“Can’t say. As I said, I’ve never needed such care. Though I suppose having such attention directed at my bodywork couldn’t be a bad thing.”

Michael shrugged, before turning back into the garage. “Let’s find out.”

—

Thirty minutes in, Bonnie entered the garage. She lost any huff she had about her. She jokingly scoffed at the rag he was holding, handed him a buffer that had been tucked away on one of the back shelves, and left.

Two hours later, Kitt emerged from the garage almost unbearably shiny. Michael had thought it impossible for a car to preen in sunlight, but Kitt was sure managing to make it seem that way. Was that overly imaginative? Maybe not.

“Now, let’s make sure to not go hurtling off any more cliffs, huh, partner?” Michael said.

“Partner. I do like how that sounds.”

“Me too. Me too.”

[bonnie-barstow-of-flag]

My screencaps: Bonnie Barstow 

[ohmystarrynight]

Consider: I receive Knight Rider Asks and you receive doodles like these. (Plus the secret second thing I receive, which is an excuse to draw more of this)

[im-a-doctor-not-a-priest]

Knight Rider Incorrect Quotes

Garthe: Someone will die.

Michael: Of fun!

Michael: Here's some advice

Bonnie: I didn't ask for any

Michael: Too bad. I'm stuck here with my thoughts and you're the only one who talks to me

KITT: Do you take constructive criticism?

Michael: I only take cash or credit.

Michael: Hey, April? Can I get some dating advice?

April: Just because I’m with Bonnie doesn’t mean I know how I did it.

[alphadelta227529]

Reading @that-banana-headed-bovine's reaction to Knight In Disgrace reminded me that I also needed to make a few changes and redress the balance, many years ago now! Although this is actually one of my favourite episodes, Michael and Devon's treatment of Kitt and Bonnie is pretty jarring in season three and honestly makes no sense. So I added a few 'missing scenes' to give the injured parties a voice and Michael a chance to apologise!

(Pardon the retro link - that's just where all my old fan fiction is saved!)

[the-difference-of-one-man]

1x3 Deadly Maneuvers

The first appearance of Dr. Bonnie Barstow.

[bonbonzzz]

Going through his angsty teen years.

[bellygunnr]

In the Grill

A continuation of " Blood on the Hood ".

The shadow of someone jogging across estate grounds at sub-five in the morning is almost enough to prompt Bonnie to pull over. She’s been here long enough to know the patterns-- the walking trails are less for use and more for show. The only folks up this early are the groundskeepers, cleaning crew, and her. She considers investigating for only a second. If it’s egregious, someone with a better paycheck than her will tell her. For now-- she has other things to worry about.

Like her job, and her dying boss, and the fact that she can already see lights on at her destination. She knocks her head back against the seat with a groan. Either someone beat her there, or someone stayed far too late, and she has an inkling as to who. A yellow Gremlin sitting in the glorified parking lot only confirms her suspicions. It’s with exasperation that she parks next to the little compact and shuts off her truck.

For a moment, all she does is stare past the hood and into the grounds. The Foundation headquarters is a baffling amount of territory. All she knows is she’s somewhere in the middle of it, with the lab and the test track. She climbs out onto the pavement before the ensuing silence grows too loud, lets the cool air ground her, and ducks inside with the swipe of her badge.

But she has to go down. She gives the elevator her retina scan and tries not to feel claustrophobic in the steel gray box. Harsh lights and freezing cold air greet her on the way out.

“April!” Bonnie calls.

Most of the lab is clean. Only a couple techs are in, which she throws looks at, but they’re not the target of her ire, so she blows past them to where a half-dismantled car dominates most of the floor space. Among it all, one woman sits, apparently triple-checking measurements.

“Dr. Curtis,” Bonnie tries again. “Good morning.”

April jumps.

“Oh, Bonnie! You’re here la-- right on time. I…”

April smiles sheepishly. She makes an aborted movement to run her fingers through her hair, which is too busy being clipped into a tight bun.

“Look, I was just trying to finalize some things… We have to completely refab the roof and pillars and I lost track of time. I can leave?”

“Finish up what you’re doing and sign out. You’ve been taking notes, right?”

Bonnie glances over at the vehicle. She decides not to question why only half of it had to be reconstructed-- not until she sees the documentation.

“Of course! Yeah, they’re in the usual place. I’ll kick out the others with me--”

Good, she thinks. KITT is too easily distracted when there’s more than a couple people in the lab, but she doesn’t tell April that.

“Thanks, April. And get some sleep-- I mean it. We’re not on crunch time yet and I don’t-- I don’t want everyone burning out.”

April’s expression softens, but her eyes narrow knowingly. “Then you need to lead by example, Dr. Barstow. I know what you’re doing! You’re not the only one who cares about this project.”

“I know I’m not,” Bonnie says, a touch too hot. “Anyway, have you seen anyone weird out on the grounds lately?”

Mercifully, April turns back to her work (though not quickly enough to hide an eye-roll). “You know? Yeah. I caught one of Mr. Knight’s guests snooping around a couple days ago. He-- she left pretty fast.”

Huh. Wilton never mentioned anything about that, but maybe that explained the measurements her team received a few days ago. The orders tied to the information had tacked tens of hours more onto their work. And Devon rarely knew enough to clarify anything…

She shakes her head.

Eventually, April and the others leave. At six sharp, KITT onlines, but doesn’t speak for a full two hours. An hour after that, the rest of the day team arrives and takes over much of the work.

---

She finds Wilton’s so-called esteemed guest in the bathroom. Or, more precisely, the esteemed guest finds her-- by shoulder-checking her with the door and bleeding from the head. Bonnie takes in their appearance in haphazard bursts. The heavily bandaged face, the shaved head, freckled skin all of the way down, dark pants and a tank top that sits low on the chest. And no bra, which is almost as pressing as the spots of blood dripping down the bridge of her nose.

“Wh-oh, this is occupied! Where’s the first aid kit?”

Her expression is hard to discern from the bandaging and scarring, but her tone is shocked, urgent, nervous. Bonnie shakes her head in disbelief and tries to look anywhere but the blood, nausea already making short work of what little she had for lunch.

“The door was locked,” Bonnie says instead, strained. “Why-- how--?”

“The nurse was coming and I panicked,” she says plainly. “You look a little pale. You good?”

Bonnie waves a hand dismissively and drops to her knees, blindly fumbling for the seam of the cabinet doors underneath the bathroom sink. They come loose with a hollow sound and she finds the medical supplies quickly, mostly because she’s had to use it before. It hadn’t been her brightest moment (and Devon had nearly fired her).

The woman reaches forward, but Bonnie swats the hands away.

“I’m not letting you re-dress your own bandages,” she says hotly. “Sit down.”

She’s a professional, god dammit.

“But—”

“I think you’d rather let me patch you up than get caught by Devon,” Bonnie says sternly.

She steels herself enough to make eye contact. The soft lighting catches the woman’s visible eye, drawing out an intense blue. It’s almost as distracting as her lifting placating hands and shimmying around to sit atop the toilet, teeth bared in a grin.

“I’m Michael,” the woman says.

She-- Michael-- thrusts out a hand. It’s covered in dust and wood shavings. Bonnie frowns down at it and the nitrile gloves she was just about to slip on.

“Or Michelle!” She amends, spreading her hands.

“Not... the problem. Michael’s a fine name. I’m Dr. Barstow.”

Bonnie winces a second after. Michael has a grin, now, and a calculating gleam in her eye that follows Bonnie through the process of examining the bloodied bandages. The detritus that’d covered her hands is on her scalp, too.

“The hell did you do?”

“Climbed out of a window, don’t worry about it. Say, who’s Devon?”

The blood doesn’t particularly smell like anything. It just gleams wetly and dries sticky and is a vivid red reminder of what lays under the skin. She swallows down a wave of nausea. At least Michael has the decency to remain quite still, even tilting her head this way and that when Bonnie asks.

“…Wrong question, uh?” Michael continues on, blithe as anything. “Is it bad, doc? Am I dyin’?”

Jesus. Bonnie shakes her head, surprised to feel a bubble of laughter against her throat. The world spins a little in protest.

“I’m not a medical doctor,” she says. “And if climbing out of a window with a head wound didn’t kill you…”

“Either you will or nothing can,” Michael finishes solemnly. “Got it. You almost done?”

Michael bobs her head in tune with her little joke and drums her fingers across her thighs. Bonnie barely resists giving her an admonishing swipe, directing the energy into finishing the bandages.

She leans back, pulling off the gloves and throwing them into the trash. Now disinfectant sits heavy in the back of her throat. The world rolls languidly. Yeah, maybe she overestimated herself this go around. But Michael’s sheer presence raises more questions than it answers, and Bonnie doesn’t like leaving things unanswered.

Who is she? Why is she injured-- why did she climb out of a window? If she’s here, in the estate, how does she not know Devon? Maybe she’s Knight’s daughter, but-- he doesn’t have any children. Does he?

Bonnie looks down at Michael and her nervous energy critically.

Michael’s palms dig into the tops of her knees while her fingers drum a pattern. Her visible eye moves around, clearly picking out the full depth of the bathroom and the distance from the door. A low-level tension simmering underneath the skin makes toned muscle jump out-- and she’s already a good head over Bonnie.

“Where do you plan on going after this?” Bonnie asks.

Michael blanches. She rocks back and forth, tongue running across chapped lips.

“Well, I was lookin’ for the kitchen, the first go around…”

“Funny. I was just about to go on lunch break,” Bonnie says, suddenly thoughtful.

Granted, she doesn’t feel like eating now. But something tells her it’d be best to keep Michael in her sights rather than let her gallivant around. Plausible deniability and all that.

Michael’s brow pulls forward. Her head cocks to the side, tracking Bonnie intently.

“My truck’s out in the front,” Bonnie says casually. “Can’t miss it, it’s ugly as sin. Meet me out there and I’ll be right behind you.”

Her face lights up-- she cottons on fast and vaults toward the door, slamming it shut behind her. The stone-and-tile bathroom echoes for a long moment with the sound.

Hopefully the truck isn’t locked, because Bonnie spends the next ten minutes hurling and cleaning up.