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It's a Tuesday in mid-January when Michael slides into the driver's seat, as is routine.
"This cold snap, huh?" he says. "Killin' me."
KITT considers that for a minute, checks the day's temperature. It has been a consistent 45 degrees the past few days or so, lower still when the sun goes down, which he understands Michael isn't much a fan of.
"It has been on the colder side, for this part of the country," says KITT in response. "Even for January."
Michael nods, sets his hands upon the wheel, and something is different.
He has driven with gloves on before, KITT remembers this — at races, stunt shows they've infiltrated, all par for the course even when Michael insisted KITT have racing stripes or numbers or god forbid flame and star decals to go along with the uniform. What rest on KITT's steering wheel now are…nice. Black leather so smooth one might mistake it for silk. Expensive. His circuits attuned to perception fire on all cylinders, straining to take in every ounce of tactile feedback from them.
"Ah," he says. "You're…wearing gloves."
Michael glances down at his hands as though he's forgotten he has them on.
"Oh, yeah. Driving gloves. Just for while it's still kinda chilly out."
He flexes his fingers over the wheel's central axle and the leather squeaks almost imperceptibly. KITT almost jolts at the sensation of its drag — or lack thereof, really — over that surface.
"I see. The cold bothers you that much, then?"
Michael casts a sheepish look askance.
"A little. Maybe I'm spending too much time with Devon." He shrugs. "Don't go making me get buyer's remorse over them, now."
KITT doesn't totally understand the concept of "buyer's remorse", as Michael puts it. He also doesn't totally grasp the response his systems have had to the sensation of the driving gloves on the steering wheel, surely something of an overreaction on his part. Perhaps both are linked to the sheer novelty of the gloves themselves — yes, he surmises, that must be it.
"Wouldn't dream of it, Michael."
KITT takes careful notice of the way Michael taps the gear shift, the center console as they drive, in time with the songs on the radio. Benatar, Lauper, Hagar, whatever — KITT doesn't much care for any of them.
What he does make a mental note of is how the seam that traces the interior of Michael's thumb and index finger, the curved reverse-L of his right hand, feels against the gear lever. He runs a cursory pressure analysis in the stretch of time it takes for them to traverse a long, lonely length of Route 66. He just wants to know how hard the interior seam of the glove might press into the skin of Michael's hand in return as it comes to rest on the shift.
"You're quiet today," says Michael.
It occurs to KITT that this analysis is, perhaps, not a typical thing to take such an interest in.
"Sorry, Michael. It must look like I'm 'spacing out', as you so often put it."
Michael chuckles, cycles through the presets on the radio as his favored station goes to a commercial. The fingertips of his gloves circle the second-to-leftmost station button, soft and careful against its edge and KITT wonders if he's always been so…sensitive.
"Are you?"
"I'm sorry?'
"Are you spacing out, KITT? That doesn't seem like the best activity for you while driving."
"I most certainly am not," he says, a bit too defensively. "Just thinking."
"Oh yeah?" Michael's hand trails down the center part of the dash, away from the radio and back to the gear lever, drumming unconsciously along to the music, entertaining the idea of moving into low gear. It's funny, KITT thinks, as he's rarely thought so long, so deeply about Michael's hands on him before. "What about?"
"Oh, just…how long before were needed back at headquarters."
He's not programmed to lie — not well, at least. Michael knows this, and it shows on his face; he raises an eyebrow and glances down at KITT's voice display.
"Right," he says with a smile. "Well, truth be told, same here."
"Really, now?"
"Yep. I'm thinking there's a fast food joint a couple miles off the freeway — gives us more than enough time to stop off there before meeting back up with the semi, yeah?"
"Ah. Of course."
But it gives KITT something else to think about. He runs the numbers and sure enough, they can make good time even accounting for Michael taking too long to pick something off the menu.
He waits as Michael listens to the sound of his engine climb before switching him to low gear with one hand loose on the wheel and the other tight on the shift, heel of his palm taking much of the force. If KITT had any breath to speak of, it might hitch.
As Devon debriefs them on the Foundation's latest assignment, Michael's hand travels to rest at his chin, just below the bottom lip. The motion sparks a curiosity previously unfamiliar to KITT, one of the sensation of leather to skin.
It's a futile wonder, he knows, but in the corner of his field of perception he sees Michael's fingers brush over his own lips. He probably doesn't even realize he's doing it.
Questions of taste and scent and olfactory chemical analysis race through KITT's artificial mind. Again, all rather extraneous and hardly useful to his immediate needs, but he runs through his knowledge banks nonetheless while Devon turns to ask April some clarifying question.
(He's becoming worse than Michael in his ability to remain focused during these meetings, he's sure of it.)
He finds notions of goat hide, finely stretched and treated with weatherproofing and recommendations of different waxes and oils for upkeep. He can certainly understand that, not at all unlike his own leather seats made custom and (relatively) water-resistant. It doesn't explain away this little fixation he's found himself with, though.
"…shouldn't be a problem though, right KITT?" He tunes back in as Michael, hand still resting below his lip, leans in to address him. Oh, he's let his mind wander for longer than anticipated.
"Of — of course not," he replies.
If anyone noticed his brief stutter, there is no indication.
"Glad to hear it, buddy."
His database trawl yields images of men in silk dress gloves, men in heavy work gloves, men in motorcycle gloves. Black gloved hands sit possessive against the waist of a black jacket. All black and shiny, like obsidian glass. Like painted metal.
Michael grins at him. KITT, with his emerging capacity for imagination, ponders the visual of gloved fingers sliding past another man's open lips.
He manually engages his cooling system, and promptly puts his information queries out of his mind.
Of course, KITT realizes he isn't fully certain what he had agreed "shouldn't be a problem" until the problem is facing them front and center.
The girl they had picked up along the way — Cynthia is her name, an equine trainer — has quickly fled the passenger seat to shush at a flustered stallion that is simply refusing to get out of its own way. And, more importantly, out of KITT's way.
"Thought you said driving through farm country wouldn't be an issue," Michael chides, chipper but not without a little frustration. KITT all but bristles at that, though he knows it's his own fault.
"Perhaps I could have engaged Stealth Mode to keep these beasts placated," he says, begrudgingly. As Cynthia leads the horse back to one of the stables, Michael reaches out and pats the top of the dashboard. His hand lingers for a moment longer than usual — something KITT didn't even realize he had data on until he runs the numbers at present — and his thumb taps, soft, against the surface. It's nice.
"One of those beasts is worth three months salary from FLAG. At least," Michael remarks.
"I promise you, that pales in comparison to my manufacturing costs."
"Yeah, I'll bet. Well, I'm not in the market for a horse if I've got you anyway, KITT." His eyes travel back to Cynthia, who's returned from wrangling the wayward stallion. He smirks. "Unless some pretty horse trainer might be able to convince me otherwise."
For some reason, that one actually hurts a little. Which is confusing, since KITT doesn't experience pain. An analog from sustaining damage, sure, but certainly not from verbal jabs.
"Don't even joke," he mutters as Cynthia gets back in the passenger seat.
"Sorry about that," she says, and pushes her wavy bangs back from her face. "They can be pretty skittish, but they're sweet animals. Smokey especially."
Michael's hand leaves the dashboard and comes to rest on her upper arm. In the fading daylight, the orange of the setting sun catches on the fine seams that line each knuckle of the gloves.
"You're good with them," he says. "I'm impressed."
KITT can't help but notice she has tracked mud and hay into the car.
He slides his hand down the contour of KITT's window and along his nose before heading inside to ask questions. It is a gesture KITT has long been used to, seen as a mundane comfort that seems almost not worth noting in the grand scheme of things.
The sensation is just different enough, just intense enough that he feels a shiver run through his suspension.
This response, he thinks, is entirely unprofessional. Irrational, uncouth. Michael Knight is his partner, for goodness sake.
Still, he replays the footage, replays the feeling of Michael's gloved hand running over the hood. He sighs in the quiet of the dirt lot, no one around to hear him.
It is the texture, the temperature differential that's so pleasing, in part. It reminds him of the human warmth underneath and maybe, just maybe, he's always liked being touched this way for one reason or another. He's just never stopped to consider it before this sudden drop in southwestern temperatures prompted Michael to purchase perplexingly nice driving gloves.
Fleeting though it is, the image of a possessive gloved hand resting against another person's waist passes through his mind. It's not as though KITT is a possession, per se, and Michael rarely treats him as such in any sincerity. Even so — for all the damage he sustains, for all the hours they've spent on the road together, he has often noticed something delicate in the way Michael touches him without thinking at times. Like he's handling him as an art piece, something to be displayed to onlookers with kid gloves.
Does Michael think of him that way? He can't help but wonder.
Michael comes striding out of the office, Cynthia in tow. She's in her tawny riding pants and a neat white shirt, tall black boots and her tousled hair in a ponytail (a funny name for that, given her profession, thinks KITT). He watches Michael walk around to the passenger side door, one hand hovering over Cynthia's shoulder by a mere inch as he guides her with a wide, fluorishing gesture to the car. He grabs the handle of the door and moves to open it for her.
The door doesn't budge. He frowns, clears his throat. His hand still lingers like a satellite over the pretty horse trainer's arm, and she regards him with quiet — if a bit baffled — amusement.
"Hey, uh — KITT?" Michael gives him a tight-lipped smile, one of those confusing human things where KITT knows he's not pleased despite the outwardly friendly expression. "Not polite to keep a lady waiting, bud."
KITT thinks briefly of the flip side of the idea of possession, the thing that started this line of contemplation to begin with — possessiveness. Then, he collects himself and unlocks his doors.
"Of course. Sorry, Michael."
Cynthia gets in and Michael shuts the door behind her. He does so with the tips of his fingers, and they press with a fair bit of force against KITT's side before the door clicks and Michael's hand draws back, trailing ghostlike just below the window as he rounds the bend of KITT's nose to the driver's side door.
He is quiet as Michael puts his hands on the wheel and turns the ignition, keeps his focus on the road as it turns from dirt back to asphalt. He half-listens to Michael and Cynthia discuss the financial discrepancies in the farm's books; so, it's embezzlement this time around. And yet, he can't fight the feeling, the strange nagging wish that he and Michael might be alone on the road.
At the end of their two days in the wealthy horse farms of central California, KITT watches Michael from the parking lot as he walks Cynthia back to her townhouse.
His hand rises to the small of her back as they walk, a dark shape against her white blouse under the lights on the front stoop.
Curiously, KITT feels some kind of…irritation rise in the back of his mind, some uncomfortable stimulus in his circuitry. Circuitry which, he might add, should afford him the rationality and level-headedness human beings are so lacking in and —
Oh, he shouldn't kid himself. Since being brought online, it seems like all he has done is pick up new, sometimes utterly confusing habits and information from the people around him — from Devon, from Bonnie and April.
From Michael.
He can vaguely read the motion of Michael's lips as he leans against the doorframe, his body language a remarkably convincing picture of nonchalance. He smiles down at Cynthia, ever so charming.
KITT doesn't bother listening in on the conversation; their mission has concluded, Michael's intent here is clear anyway. It's not something that has ever bothered him before, save for a little boredom, perhaps a slight loneliness while his driver is otherwise occupied with this pretty girl or that. Very slight.
He watches Michael's hand dance across her hip again, and he realizes, what he's feeling right now — it's the same sensation as when Michael brags about that damned 1956 Chevy.
KITT has never been jealous of the attention Michael pays the girls he meets on their travels, unprofessional though he may find it. They're all perfectly lovely, Cynthia is no exception.
He's also never taken the time to consider the sensation of human touch on his body. He's never taken the time to consider that maybe that should be me.
It is an unpleasant and unbecoming thought, and he forces a shudder through his systems in an attempt to rid himself of it. In his distraction, he hardly notices how Cynthia shies away from Michael's touch, says something inaudible with a polite inclination of the head. When his attention snaps back to his driver, KITT can make out the shape of a lightly mortified "I'm sorry" on Michael's lips. His gloves hands are clasped behind his back now, his posture stiff.
Cynthia smiles, appears to thank him, and awkwardly pats the front of his arm before slipping inside. Michael stands there on the porch for a couple minutes, unsure of what to do with himself. He rubs the back of his neck and mutters something incomprehensible, then raises his wrist comm level with his mouth.
"Got an opening in my schedule, KITT," he says. KITT isn't sure how to respond to that. He continues: "Wanna go for a drive?"
"…Of course."
Michael cracks his knuckles. KITT cannot hear it, but can imagine leather squeaking against itself with the force of the motion.
They take the long way back to the motel, along a road that cuts through gently rolling hills. The sky is purple, the specter of a distant city's lights reflecting up into the darkness. Through it all, Michael keeps the window cracked, and the night air is cold — pleasantly so to KITT, though he knows it may be less than enjoyable for a human.
And of course, the gloves stay on. Their presence is not soon to be forgotten as Michael's fingers brush the lower right hand row of buttons, disengaging the automatic steering and moving swiftly back to the wheel. In the dark, KITT can only just make out Michael's eyebrow raise in passing at something adjacent to the dash. He thinks to ask, but Michael has been quiet all throughout their drive, without a doubt a little hurt and quite embarrassed from his rejection. KITT decides to leave it alone.
Michael does that thing again, the one where his thumb swipes over some surface of another — the wheel this time — and KITT has to repress a sigh.
They pull back into the silent parking lot, and Michael pauses as he gets out of the car, lingering by KITT's nose. His knuckles are only a centimeter away, close enough that KITT can feel the ambient electricity from his body.
"You were kinda distracted these last couple days," Michael observes. He's at an angle that makes it hard for KITT to get a visual on his face, and his shoulders are set, stiff.
"I'm sorry, Michael," he says, almost automatically. If he had a face as Michael understands it, he might have flushed at the statement. "I…I can see why you might gather as much."
Michael looks back at him, brow furrowed.
"I don't get it, KITT."
"I have to admit, I don't either, really."
He rolls his eyes, sets his hand flat against the hood.
"What was that shit with the door before? I didn't think you were the type to be rude." He adds: "To anyone besides me, I mean."
"It wasn't my intention. I think…perhaps my mind was elsewhere."
Michael comes around to the front and leans forward, pressing his weight down through the fingers of both hands. The leather of the gloves catches on the aluminum of KITT's hood, a sudden intense friction that KITT fails to anticipate and he feels his system stutter.
"Yeah, KITT, I know — so where was it?"
"I think — Michael, I think this line of questioning is coming from a place of frustration."
Michael's fingers pull back, tracing hard across the black metal as he balls them into loose fists. He sighs.
"I…yeah. Sorry." He shifts his weight and leans in, onto his forearms now. KITT is thinking about the press of Michael's body weight into him, now — mind elsewhere for sure. "I guess maybe I'm just worried we made a wrong impression."
"On Cynthia?"
His eyes flick up at KITT's windshield. It is an odd habit he has, addressing certain parts of the car the way he would make eye contact with another person. It's also not the first time it has made KITT's processors jitter.
"Makes it sound real trivial when you put it like that."
"Again, that wasn't my intent."
There is still a twinge of annoyance in Michael's posture. He drums his fingers against KITT's nose, still leaning hard into his forearm. The firm thump, thump, thump of his fingertips hitting the hood echo like thunder in KITT's audio processing units. It is becoming hard to bear, a driving reminder of that physical proximity that KITT swears is nigh corroding his logic circuit.
"Michael," he says, barely thinking about the words as they come out. "Please take your hands off my hood."
Almost as if burned, Michael retracts, rises to his feet.
"Sorry," he says, voice quiet as he surveys KITT for any trace of damage. "Didn't mean to hurt you, buddy."
"I…" KITT trails off, at a loss, and Michael cocks his head. "I didn't mean to worry you. Rest assured, you didn't hurt me."
"KITT," Michael says, bringing his hands down, crossing his arms over the swell of his chest. "What's going on?"
It has become harder and harder not to trip over his words as he tries to rationalize it, and a clumsy "um" escapes him. Michael exhales through his nose, a look of confusion and pity in his eyes.
"Why did you purchase these…driving gloves?"
His brows raise, and he looks down at his hands like they've just appeared before him for the first time.
"These? Jeez, KITT, if you didn't like them —"
"No, Michael —" He knows it's impolite to interrupt, but at this point it is worse to dig himself deeper into denial. "I…I do like them. I think perhaps to a distracting degree."
In the dark blue of the evening, he watches the calculations run behind Michael's eyes, a rough realization eventually dawning on his face.
"So — so you're telling me the gloves, uh, do something for you?"
His systems begin to run newly hot, which he realizes is purely out of embarrassment at this point.
"I suppose. I don't really know for sure. Something about the sensation of being handled with them…it stands out in my mind." He pauses. "I fear this is shameful behavior on my part."
To his surprise, Michael laughs fondly.
"No, I don't think it's anything to be ashamed of, KITT," he replies. "Does, um…does being touched in general make you feel this way?"
KITT hesitates. He watches as Michael's fingers twitch as he asks, as though inclined to reach out and make experimental contact.
"I hadn't thought about it that hard before…before you started wearing the gloves."
"Okay," says Michael, and moves back towards the driver's side door. He leans in slightly, hands braced upon his knees. "I have a question for you, KITT."
KITT has no heartbeat. All the same, he can swear he can hear his own imaginary pulse running loud.
"And what is that, Michael?"
"Do you want me to keep touching you?"
He recalls the faint outline of hands on another man's hips, from some archived magazine that he's certain Bonnie had never planned for him to access. He thinks of Michael's hand laid flat on the hood of the cab as he makes some conspiratorial request during this mission or that. Of the force of his fingers against the dashboard buttons. His mind feels like a television with a scattered signal.
"I fear that would be deeply unprofessional of me to ask."
"Heard," Michael nods. "And I won't push it if you don't wanna. But I'm okay being unprofessional."
This, he knows.
"As you would have been if we hadn't opted to go for a drive."
"What, with…? Oh, KITT. She wasn't even on my mind when I asked. I swear."
One hand leaves his knee, comes to settle feather-light against the door handle.
Professionalism, KITT decides in that moment, is a set of arbitrary expectations with little bearing on his coding.
"Well," he says. "If I'm to be truthful, I think I would like that."
Michael grins and pulls the door open, folds his knees as he slides into the driver's seat.
"I think I would too."
"I — Michael," KITT says, now acutely aware of his right hand tracing the edge of the steering column. "Is this something you've…considered, then?"
"For the sake of, uh, professionalism, let's say of course not." His left hand moves to the flat of KITT's dashboard, thumb once again moving in small, slow circles over the surface. "But off the record, maybe a little."
His right hand again catches KITT's attention, as he trails upward and circles his fingers around the ignition switch once, and then again with a renewed pressure.
"Maybe?" KITT manages, voice artifacting and compressing with the effort of processing Michael's fingers rubbing against him. He's never been touched quite like this — he wonders just how in-depth Michael's considerations have been. Part of him hopes for the worst.
And Michael just laughs, pulls his left arm forward against the wheel and leans into it. His gloved pointer finger slides over the ignition again, the leather smooth and cool, and KITT doesn't even try to suppress a shudder.
"That feel good?"
"I think…I think so."
He slows, though perhaps that makes it all the worse — KITT can still feel the agonizing trace of his hand rubbing an entirely-too-measured circle around his machinery, part of him he had never once stopped to consider as sensitive.
"If you're not sure, I don't have to —"
"No. It does." KITT says, all too quickly. "I just don't really know what to make of it."
Michael's eyes travel to the dashboard levels, continuing his movements, faster, more forcefully. Each stroke feels like some cruel imitation of a closed circuit, hardly enough to get his engine to turn over but enough to feel like there's a spark loose in his system. He allows himself to groan gently and finally puts a reason to Michael's intent focus on the dashboard — he's watching the voltage meter, eyeing each jump as KITT tries, fails to keep his composure.
Someone has to, he supposes.
Michael's hand moves away, breaking away from the ignition switch and — disgustingly, shamelessly — KITT hears himself whine at the loss of contact.
"Michael, please —"
"I just — hold on," Michael sighs, quiet and hoarse. He shifts in his seat, and KITT can't help but pick up on the spike in his temperature, the sudden increase in his heart rate. "Where…where else can I touch you?"
Where, indeed. KITT's mind races with possibilities, faint traces of absolute nonsense like faster, closer, deeper, please please please wherever you want dancing through him, signals pinging left and right in the muddled sonar of his perception circuitry.
It would be something of a jump, certainly, but the idea of the pliant black leather pushing into of him, direct contact with his wires is just too much to ignore.
"Um," he says after a minute, his sudden lack of articulation deeply embarrassing. "The panel beneath my steering column."
Michael pauses.
"Where your logic circuits are?"
A shiver of electricity runs through him; he's surprised Michael remembers that detail — pleased, even.
"Yes," he says with a renewed conviction. "I want you to touch me there."
Fingers drum on the yoke of the wheel as Michael takes a moment to think. He reaches back, hands coming to meet at chest height as he moves to pull at the cuff of his right glove.
"Michael." The firmness with which he says it seems to startle both of them, and he makes a throat-clearing noise in some attempt to break the tension. "You can…leave them on."
Hands drop to his lap, hovering just between his thighs and the blocky form of the steering column, and Michael flashes him a smile.
"Right." The plastic shell of the panel comes off easily, though Michael's efforts against it are slow, purposeful. KITT can hear his breath stutter in the near-silence despite his confident, glib front. "Of course."
His right hand comes to trace the outline of the open panel, knuckles grazing the rectangular entrance in little hurry to delve further. KITT knows he's running hot now, and with the proximity between Michael's hands and his exposed interior narrowed to mere centimeters, it's no longer a question of whether Michael can feel it too.
As if reading KITT's mind, he opens his mouth.
"Please don't say anything about my temperature, Michael."
"You don't wanna hear how hot I think you are?"
His eyes flick from KITT's voice display to the panel of wires and circuitry below the wheel. A couple seconds tick by, and KITT notes the shift in Michael's biometric readout — his temperature rises along with his heartbeat, blood flow to his face and below the belt shifting, a marginal but not insignificant increase in the diameter of his pupils. He breathes out hard, and with some perplexed satisfaction KITT notes —
"Are you…aroused by this, Michael?"
Michael gives him a look.
"I'm about to stick my fingers inside you for a less than professional tune-up and you're asking me if I'm gettin' turned on by it?"
"It just seems…" KITT waffles over the phrasing for a moment. "Unusual."
"More or less than a car with a thing for leather?"
"Well — I don't — I'm not a person."
Michael snorts.
"Sure you are, pal," he says. "You're not human, sure, but you're one hell of a person."
He pauses, runs his tongue along his teeth.
"One hell of a man, too, if you don't mind me saying so."
KITT's engine turns over involuntarily. He doesn't hear Michael talk about men so often — he doesn't pry, though sometimes when Michael's eyes follow another man for a little longer than is typical, there is a resonant, wistful sensation at the back of his logic center. It feels…nice knowing that Michael finds him attractive in the same way, someone to be admired as he would another man.
"I don't. Not at all. Thank you, Michael."
Michael smiles at him, pupils blown in the low light, and then does something KITT fails to anticipate.
He brings his right hand to his mouth, slides his middle and ring finger past his lips, in to the knuckle. KITT watches him, speechless, as his hand hangs heavy against his lower jaw, tongue working slow against his leather-clad fingers. He sighs, mostly out through the nose, and his lashes flutter, the barest severance of eye contact with KITT's voice display.
After what feels like ages, Michael removes his hand with a soft groan, smearing saliva over his lips as he reaches back down. His thumb braces the precipice of the panel again, and the tips of his newly spit-slick fingers press, exploratory, against the edge of a circuit board.
Embarrassing though it is, the sharp spark of electricity lights up KITT's system almost immediately. This, too, is a sensitivity he's never quite experienced before, and he startles at the sudden, overwhelming enormity of it. Michael's fingers slide down and back up the silicon chip before scissoring it, clenching down with a soft pressure on the soldered transistors on either side.
KITT whimpers.
"Is this okay?" Michael whispers.
"Yes, I — yes. Please." Michael's gloves are nearly dry from the heat radiating from KITT's system, but there's enough moisture that the movement of his hand sliding back up the circuit board and over it is fluid and smooth and satisfying. KITT makes a small vocalization halfway between a whine and a cough, and Michael presses his left hand against the dash, fingers splayed and thumb rubbing small circles into the surface.
"You're good," he says, the fingers of his right hand tracing the length of a bundle of taut wires. "Oh, you're good. I'm not gonna do anything that'll mess with the power steering, baby."
On the contrary, KITT thinks this endeavor might actually enhance his haptic mapping — if he doesn't short circuit in the process.
Michael seems intent on putting that to the test as his fingers slide harder against the wires, running part of their length before massaging them apart by a centimeter or two.
"Oh — ! Michael, that's —"
The fingertips of his left hand bear down hard as he pushes in further with his right. The pressure on the wires sends a dull ache through his system; there are few surfaces or mechanisms in him capable of stretching, not really, but KITT swears the sensation of Michael's fingers sliding into his wires, down to the knuckle, makes him feel like he's straining against the force of it.
He's there a second before he pulls his hand back an inch or two, experimentally, like he's counting the number of little wires that drag against the leather as he goes. KITT in fact knows the exact number, he knows the exact circuit that would break if Michael pulls too hard on any singular one. But Michael doesn't pull — he presses in forward again, the wires running the other way up his gloved fingers. Repeats the motion again, again, again, nice and slow with his eyes moving from the steering column to KITT's voice display as though checking for approval.
KITT hopes the messy, distorted "yes" that comes out of him is enough.
Luckily enough, it seems to translate. Michael rolls one of the wires towards the front between his thumb and middle finger on the pull-out motion. KITT's wheels almost jerk to one side, and he sees Michael smile, open-mouthed.
"You good?"
He makes a throat-clearing noise, as if that will do anything.
"I'm fine."
"Okay." Michael pinches the wire once more before his middle and ring finger move into KITT again. He shivers around them. "Would you mind if I…uh, used another?"
He can feel the heat pouring from his system now, doesn't make any attempt to mitigate it. The very thought of more is making him slightly delirious — it doesn't bode well for the acuity of his systems, and he briefly dreads having to field questions from Bonnie as to what the spike in his voltage and perception readouts signifies.
Michael's ring finger brushes the wire.
"Please do."
He draws his lower lip between his teeth, and eases three fingers slow into the wires. KITT can't help it — he hears himself moan into it.
Michael exhales through his teeth and leans in, face close to the wheel.
"Hold on for me a second, yeah?"
He does. His systems adjust to the repeated motion of Michael's fingers, the sensory input of the gloves sliding, tugging against the protective coating of the wires. The friction catches, plucks them like an instrument and before he can make heads or tails of the added stimulus, a fourth finger pushes in.
"Michael — !"
"Sorry, sorry, too much?"
His voice is ragged, and thought his ministrations have slowed, the better part of his right hand still nudges inside KITT, centimeter by centimeter. Now, surely, there's a sensation of stretching, tension pushing outward against the wires of the steering column.
"No," KITT huffs. "Please…please…please resume."
Michael whines slightly now, red in the face and showing clear signs of full-body physical arousal. He shifts, and KITT's imagination begins to spiral again — would Michael go even further with him, if he asked? Too fast, too fast —
And Michael's hand slides forward, in to the knuckles again with a "that's it, baby". It very nearly makes him short circuit while he tries to keep his systems level. Keeping it together — in as much as his current state could be considered "together" — is a challenge.
That, and it's a tight fit for Michael's whole hand under the steering column.
His other hand slides up and forward now, settling on top of the dash as he leans in, chin against the yoke. He's panting against it, damp breath lighting up KITT's haptic feedback sensors further.
"Michael, why did you —" KITT shivers, tracking the slow nudge of Michael's knuckles against his entrance. "Why did you slow down?"
Michael clears his throat, adjusts in his seat to spread his legs a bit.
"Well," he says, oddly delicate. "KITT, it's been a minute since I've had four fingers inside someone on the first date."
"O-oh." A beat. "I don't think this is a date."
"No," Michael agrees half-heartedly. "Wish it was, though."
"Perhaps…we could discuss the possibility at a later date." KITT would cringe if he could. He's all business all of a sudden. But Michael grins fondly, lazily and nods.
"Fine by me, partner," And adds, "if we're doing away with what little professionalism's left."
Not much use denying that. His engine rumbles, which he hopes is enough to goad Michael into continuing.
"I'm gonna keep going, okay?"
"Thank goodness," KITT sighs. "I was beginning to think this would take til morning."
"There's my little Firebird."
He's long been somewhat perplexed by the written description of knees buckling. In the moment, KITT thinks he finally understands.
Of course, he doesn't have much time to dwell on it as Michael presses his fingertips together, slides them into the space under the steering wheel and flexes them slightly and oh my good god Michael yes please yes.
KITT hears him laugh hoarsely — ah, he's said that aloud, then — and sinks into the feeling of his gloved fist tangled in the wires, stretching them, teasing the edges of his circuitry. Michael, face red, eyes cast down at his own wrist, huffs loud in his audio processor with each shallow nudge.
My little Firebird.
Michael moans softly through his teeth. His knuckle catches on a particularly vital wire.
His Firebird.
KITT concedes, lets himself tip over the edge as it all becomes too much, too much for his systems to handle, too much for the tightness of the wiring of the steering column to accommodate. The current of pleasure sends a sharp, startling jolt through him. The lights on the dashboard flicker dangerously and cycle between their various signifiers of yellow red green, finally blinking out for all but a second.
The radio buzzes on, tuned to static, then shuts off again. KITT shudders at his lack of composure.
Michael, hard and barely comfortable in the driver's seat, stills at that.
"Um," he says. "KITT…?"
"Y-yes, Michael?"
"Are you…good?"
Well, that's a loaded question, isn't it? KITT musters up the processing power to arrange a coherent answer:
"Very." It comes out sultry, self-satisfied, moreso than he intends, and he makes to add on when Michael begins to withdraw his hand from the wires and — "oh, oh Michael, that's so —"
The leather slips out of his wires, replaced by the stale air of the cab. It's cold compared to the core temperature KITT has reached in the throes of their tryst.
"Sorry, bud," says Michael. "I guess I should have warned you."
"No…worries," KITT murmurs, still a little taken aback as he comes down, lets his temperature settle. "I found it…extremely enjoyable."
"Well, I'd hate to think I did a bad job."
KITT scoffs.
"Perish the thought."
But through the banter, KITT's mind begins to settle as well, back into reality.
"I suppose," he says. "I don't quite know where we go from here, you and I."
Michael nods, sympathetic. His thumb rubs circles against the top of the dashboard, the pad of his finger warm even through the glove.
"Well, I'd like to say 'wherever we want', but I don't think that's much of an answer." He seems almost sheepish about it, a bit perplexed and overwhelmed, maybe. Heartening to think it isn't just him. "I, uh, guess we got off to a bit of a weird start, though, huh?"
KITT considers that.
"I suppose. Although — maybe no more or less than…what was it you said? A car with a 'thing' for leather?"
Michael laughs; his temperature readout swells again.
"You got me there. Kind of hot when you think about it."
He thinks to protest, chastise him lightly for that. But at his core, KITT relishes the attention.
"Who would have thought you might spend your evening any other way, then, hmm?" He quips. Michael balks at that, starts to stumble over his words in return as his blush only deepens.
"That's — that's not — KITT, you know that's basically ancient history! She was a witness! Nice girl, no hard feelings between us, but also nothing —"
"Michael, I understand. I'm making fun of you." Though it's tempting to let him ramble on, watch him gesture wildly, the mortified flush spreading to his neck. "But I might just let you live it down if you make good on that date. If indeed our, ah, professional relationship has changed somewhat."
He waits an agonizing few seconds as Michael straightens himself, pretends like he hadn't just been making excuses over his imagined weekend fling with Cynthia, horse-trainer extraordinaire. He cards his hands through his hair, looping a curl idly around one finger.
"It's a date. Hundred percent." He continues fiddling with his hair, toying with the curls at the base of his neck now; how charming, thinks KITT. He pauses. "But I can't lie to you — I'm gonna need another few minutes of your night before that."
KITT runs through the biometric scan once more.
Ah. Right.
Michael leans back in the seat, one hand splayed over his thigh, the other coming to loosen his engraved belt buckle.
"You ever seen driving gloves do this before?"
And all of a sudden, KITT is primed to fire on all cylinders again.