AN: This is set between "Chariot of Gold" and "White Bird."

AN 2: Knight Rider and all related characters belong to Mr. Larson and Universal. I'm just borrowing them for a bit.

Hope Deferred

By the Lady Razorsharp

She knew what she had to do.

This car had taken him from her. This car was in between them. Now it would bend to her will, and would be what it was—a simple machine, made to do the bidding of others.

Without a second thought, she ripped out KITT's control cards. They were still warm with KITT's electric lifeblood when she gave them into Deauville's hands.

The voice modulator stuttered and went dark, stilling the machine's protests.

"Very good, my dear," said Deauville, with a paternal smile.

Michael. The good son, the substitute heir, the cat with eight lives left.

She stood and looked at him, her heart as cold and dark as the rainy sky above as words tumbled from him.

"--me, it's Michael! Don't you remember—"

Oh, yes, she remembered. She remembered nights of working underneath the car that he'd destroyed with some reckless stunt, spending hours putting to rights what he bent or tore or broke in an instant. She remembered crawling out from underneath the chassis, exhausted, hungry, covered in dirt and grease—only to see him, fully rested, fed, and freshly pressed, run past her with a jaunty wave and proceed to begin the cycle all over again.

She remembered listening to him dismiss Liberty Cox, who'd been nothing more than an evening's distraction. She remembered watching as he caught the eyes of all the women (and not a few of the men) at Phillip Royce's mansion while she stood glued to Devon, feeling frumpy in her modest outfit amongst all the tarts in their cocktail dresses.

This was her chance to put him in his place. She could end all the pain of watching him drive off into the night with someone else, all the heartache of waiting and hoping he'd come back to her in one piece. She had the power. Deauville had given it to her.

Michael was still jabbering on about the team and Devon and the Foundation, and how much she was a part of the team.

Her face remained an impassive mask. KITT had caved in to Michael's sentimental drivel, but she had no such problem. KITT was programmed to preserve human life above all else, but she had no such directive, no such hindrance.

Michael's face was so earnest, his pleas so sincere that she almost felt sorry for him.

He stretched out his hand toward her, palm up. "Take my hand, Bonnie. We're a team. We work things out together." His voice thickened and dropped to a whisper. "We love each other."

She wasn't sure where she'd gotten the gun, but it was in her hand all the same. She was in control. She had the power to end it.

She raised the gun and shot him through the heart.

"NO!"

Bonnie sat bolt upright, her voice echoing against the ornate vaulted ceiling of her room. Her heart was pounding, and it took several steadying breaths before the room resolved itself into its familiar shapes of armoire, television, stereo, bookcase, loveseat and chair.

She closed her eyes in an attempt to rein in her spinning thoughts, but just as quickly opened them again. There in the darkness was the afterimage of her nightmares: Michael, sprawled on the wet asphalt, a dark stain spreading on his red shirt.

It didn't happen, she sternly reminded herself. She hadn't had a gun in her hand that day. Deauville was behind bars, KITT was wholly himself once more…and Michael's words of hope had broken Deauville's control over her.

Bonnie drew her knees up to her chest under the covers and let her head fall forward to rest on the brocade coverlet. She wrapped her arms around her knees, remembering how safe she'd felt with Michael's arms around her.

It's okay, he'd said, holding her as if he'd never let her go. It's okay. I'm here. It's over.

With a sigh, she threw back the covers and retrieved the robe draped over the chair. Sleep would prove elusive, as it always did when the nightmare reared its ugly head. Putting on her slippers, she padded down to the massive kitchen in search of some tea.

When she passed the door to Devon's office, she frowned at the light spilling into the hallway. On silent feet, she crept into the warm room.

Devon, clad in an elegant dressing gown and pajamas, was sitting in one of the chairs near the hearth, a brandy snifter cradled in his hands. He was gazing deeply into the flames that danced just beyond the soles of his slippered feet.

Bonnie moved into what she supposed was the range of his peripheral vision. "Devon?"

The Englishman gave a start and glanced up at her. "Oh, hello, my dear." He set the snifter on the low table between the chairs and got to his feet. "What brings you here?" He regarded her severely from under his brows. "You weren't thinking of doing anything like work at this ungodly hour, were you?"

Bonnie smiled. "When Michael's gone, I try to get all the sleep I can." To her horror, she felt her cheeks grow hot. "I mean—it's a nice change of pace to actually get some sleep instead of working in the trailer all night."

Devon chuckled. "No need to explain." He moved to the sideboard. "I don't suppose you'd care to join me?" He gestured to the brandy snifter that was the twin to his own.

She grinned. "Herbal tea's more my speed, but thanks anyway."

"Well, then." Devon replaced the stopper of the brandy decanter with a clink of fine crystal. "Since we're both wide awake, perhaps we should go look for some."

She shook her head. "Oh, no, you don't have to—"

One corner of his mouth quirked into a smile. "It's not as if I have any other pressing engagements at the moment—and correct me if I'm wrong, but you look like you might welcome the company."

Bonnie rolled her eyes. "Is it that obvious?"

Devon smiled gently. "My dear, one doesn't live as long as I have without knowing what a refugee from a nightmare looks like."

She snorted and got to her feet. "Guess it is that obvious."

"All right then." Devon gave her his elbow. "Shall we?"

The kitchen was dark, bordered on one side by large windows that gave a view of the vegetable garden outside. Moonlight painted the leaves of the basil and rosemary growing in the sill with bright silver. A large refrigerator hummed to itself on one wall, and the butcher-block island sat in the middle of the space like a massive altar to some patron saint of hearth and home. A tiny blue-orange flame danced seen-and-not-seen between the spidery fingers of the gas burners of the industrial-size stove.

"It seems so huge and empty at night," said Bonnie with a shiver. "I sometimes forget how many people work at the Manor."

Devon switched on the lights, and the kitchen suddenly came to life with a familiar, cheery glow. "Well, it's certainly busier than when Wilton first bought the place," he said, reaching for the stainless kettle perched on the back burner of the stove. "Originally, it was just Wilton, his family, and myself, along with the housekeeper, the cook, and four technicians."

Bonnie opened a door, hoping to find a pantry, but found shelves full of table linens instead. "That's all?" she laughed. "Sounds like a houseful to me."

"In those days, everyone lived here," Devon explained, filling the kettle from the old-fashioned faucet in the deep sink. "The entire operation was housed here within the gates." He shut off the water, fitted the lid back on the kettle, and then set the heavy kettle on the stove. "Now, where are the matches?"

Bonnie pulled open a drawer beside the stove. "Here's some."

"Ah, thank you."

She watched as Devon struck the match against the cast iron and lit the burner in a series of efficient movements. "Looks like you've done this a few times," she observed wryly.

He blew the match out and then dropped it into a small ceramic dish set on the counter. "Our farmhouse in Surrey had a stove much like this when I was growing up." He positioned the kettle on the merrily blazing burner. "In the winter, the kitchen was the warmest place in the house." He chuckled. "Besides, it's also a useful skill for heating up Compo Rations in an abandoned house in Paris. We hit the veritable jackpot for finding a place that still had the gas on."

Bonnie opened another door, and was pleased to find that luck was with her. "About time I found the pantry." She pulled the string for the light overhead, and perused the myriad of tins and boxes on the shelves before her before selecting a green box with a drawing of a bear in nightshirt and cap on the lid. "Is this okay?"

She handed the box to Devon, and he took an experimental sniff. "Excellent choice." He reached past her for a flat plaid box. "Hallo, what's this?" He read the label superimposed on a picture of golden shortbread cookies. "Oh, yes, these will make a capital addition to our makeshift tea."

It was another few moments before they found the tea service, but by that time the kettle was tweeting at them. Soon both were seated on high stools at one corner of the island, sipping at cups of the fragrant brew.

"There's one thing you haven't told me," said Bonnie, as Devon reached for one of the buttery triangles.

"Oh? And what's that?"

She set down her cup and grabbed a cookie for herself. "What you were doing up at this 'ungodly' hour, as you call it."

Devon gave her a tight smile. "Well, unlike you, who welcomes the chance to sleep instead of wrenching on KITT when Michael's at home—" He tapped the cookie on the rim of his cup, and his expression grew even more serious. "I find sleep rather elusive when Michael's away."

Bonnie dunked the cookie in her tea. "You worry about him."

"Constantly." Devon laid his untouched cookie on his saucer. "Oh, I don't doubt that Michael can look after himself perfectly well; especially with KITT's added protection. After all, Michael was a policeman in his former life, and one doesn't get into law enforcement of that caliber without having a particular talent for getting out of sticky situations." He sighed. "However, that doesn't stop one from waiting up nights by the telephone for that dreaded phone call."

"'We regret to inform you,'" mused Bonnie. "Yeah, I see what you mean. I've gotten one of those."

Devon finished crunching through a bite of shortbread. "Really? You're much too young for that sort of thing, I'd think."

Bonnie shook her head. "My dad and my older brothers were firefighters, and my mom and I always waited up when there was a big fire." She sighed. "One night, the phone rang, and we found out that my dad and my oldest brother Sam were killed in a building collapse. My two younger brothers tried to go back for them, but it was too late."

Devon placed a hand over hers. "I'm terribly sorry."

She smiled. "Thanks. It was hard on my family, but at least we knew they died doing what they loved to do."

"I think that our intrepid young knight is much the same," said Devon, pulling away to refill their cups with more hot water. "Michael has a flair for this unique brand of service, and…" He set the pot down. "If the unthinkable should occur, I would assert to my dying breath that he went out fighting."

They sat in silence for a moment, the very thing they dreaded most hovering like a dark cloud over their heads.

"I dreamt something like that tonight," Bonnie admitted, watching the steam rise from her cup. "It was about Deauville and Helios."

Devon's expression turned stormy. "My ego nearly killed the both of you and almost destroyed KITT," he gritted. "Wilton's foresight was the only thing that saved you that day."

"We all should have been more suspicious," Bonnie corrected, laying a gentle hand on Devon's arm. "When Deauville came to you and said that two Helios members had died mysteriously, we should have said, 'thanks, but no thanks.'"

With an uncomfortable smile, Devon patted her hand. "You're much too kind."

She smiled, but it soon faded, leaving her eyes haunted with the remnants of her dream. "I dreamt that I killed Michael. I was angry at him, and I shot him."

Devon frowned. "Why were you angry at him?"

Bonnie ran her hands through her hair. "Because…because of KITT." She pushed her cup away restlessly. "Stupid reason, huh—to be jealous of the car."

"Jealous?" Devon's brows quirked upward as the blush on Bonnie's cheeks reappeared. "That's an interesting choice of words. Are you?"

Bonnie's shoulders stiffened; Devon had pounced on the single word she'd hoped she hadn't heard herself say. She let her hair fall over her face. "No." She sighed and sat up. "Yes," she said, her tone flat.

Devon's eyes twinkled. "Not an entirely unexpected turn of events," he said mysteriously.

"What?!" She blushed to the roots of her hair. "You mean—"

He leaned forward and captured both of her hands in his own. "My dear girl, I've known you've been in love with Michael Knight for quite a long time."

She sighed. "Does he know?"

The older man thought for a moment. "Bonnie, let me tell you something about Michael: While he is incredibly intelligent, possesses a wealth of street smarts, and is right handy with a pistol, our friend is rather on the clueless side when it comes to the people who care about him most."

She snorted and rose from her seat. "Yeah," she said, gathering up the china. "Witness the string of broken hearts he leaves behind him after the end of a mission."

"He told me about your reaction to Liberty Cox," said Devon, his words tinged with sympathy. "I agree that he was completely out of line. However…you knew he had a fiancée when he was Michael Long, didn't you?"

Bonnie stopped in mid-reach for the cookie box. "No, I didn't."

"Her name is Stephanie Mason." Devon smiled briefly. "She's a pretty thing; petite, blonde, blue eyes. I've been keeping an eye on her in case the people who shot Michael Long went after her, but so far she's doing all right."

"I don't understand why you're telling me this," Bonnie said softly, blinking away the tears that had come out of nowhere.

"My point in telling you is not to drag up bits of lurid gossip," Devon reassured her. "What I'm trying to say is that I believe I know why his interests are so…varied."

She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. "Do I really want to know?"

Devon shrugged. "It might give you some insight as to why he can't see past the end of the nose the surgeons gave him—" He stood and cupped her chin with a fatherly hand. "—to see the love that lies just within reach."

She closed her eyes, her tears spilling over. Ever the gentleman, Devon produced a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her.

"Michael is still looking to fill that space inside of him torn out by Tanya Walker's bullet," he continued gently. "I think that in time, he will find that hole is not so empty anymore, by virtue of our friendship with him, as well as the work he and KITT do for the Foundation."

"And until then?" Bonnie asked miserably. "I guess we just have to stand by and watch him make an idiot of himself."

Devon chuckled. "We will stand by and love him for who he is, and hope and pray that he eventually comes round."

Bonnie let her head rest against Devon's shoulder. "It's so frustrating. Sometimes I don't know whether to hug him or to give him a good right hook."

Devon patted her shoulder. "I know. I've wanted to give him a few of those right hooks myself."

She began to laugh, and pulled away to wipe her eyes again. "Thanks, Devon. I needed that."

He grinned. "Happy to be of service." He hid a yawn behind one hand. "Now, I think a few hours of shuteye are in order. Our knight and his faithful steed will be home in a few hours, and we should be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to face whatever they bring us."

Bonnie groaned. "Don't remind me."

The radio crackled to life. "Galahad to Avalon," said a familiar voice. "Come in, Avalon."

Devon reached over to the radio on the small desk in the semi's mobile office. "Avalon here. What is your ETA?"

"Ten minutes, and we're comin' in hot."

'Hot' meant that KITT was speeding along the road at over 200 mph. "You're not being pursued, are you?"

"Negative, Avalon. Just want to get home."

Devon smiled. "All right. We'll be waiting. Avalon out."

Soon the back door of the trailer opened and the ramp extended, thanks to a signal transmitted by KITT when the car was within range. Having decelerated from a hair-raising clip to a sedate 55 mph, the black Trans Am bounded up the ramp and into the bay, and smoothly braked to a stop where Bonnie and Devon waited.

Michael pulled himself wearily from the driver's seat. "Home sweet home, buddy. Let's let someone else do the driving for a while." He patted the roof of the car fondly.

"It's nice for a change," KITT agreed. "Hello Bonnie, Mr. Miles. It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you too, KITT," said Devon. "Michael, you're looking a little worn; are you all right?"

The lanky driver yawned. "Listen, all I want right now is a hot shower, a plateful of home cooking, and about three days worth of uninterrupted knockout time."

Bonnie stepped forward, a wicked grin on her face. "Well, we can furnish the first two when we get back to the Manor, but I think you'll have to cut down your 'knockout time' to about eight hours." She handed him a file. "Here's your next assignment."

"Aw, man!" He rolled his eyes. "Love you too, Bonnie."

She laughed. "I know."

--END--