So here's the other thing I wrote while in the hospital. Don't worry: It's much lighter than the previous one, so it won't make anyone cry. ;)

It's even a "song fic" of sorts, the song in question being the title of this li'l thang. For those of you who weren't alive in the early 80s…God, you poor things. You missed all the good music. ;) Also, I suppose that those of you who aren't dumb Americans might be unfamiliar with the song, since I have no idea if it ever went international. The story reads better if you're familiar with the song, I think, so in case you're not familiar with it for whatever reason, here's a YouTube link to the album version of the song: http:/ www. youtube .com /watch?v=ur8ftRFb2Ac (Copypasta, remove spaces, I'm sure you know the deal. ;) )

On top of the fact that this is one of my favorite songs ever from one of my favorite albums ever, it's also a (not country) song about a condemned outlaw riding (on a horse, one presumes, given references to "hanging") for the border, which I think is appropriate given Kitt's touch of fascination with "desperadoes." And, of course, it's the ultimate driving song, practically guaranteed to get you a massive speeding ticket when played at maximum volume on the ol' car stereo. Which, of course, is also appropriate. ;)

I do have one disclaimer, though: The author does not advocate running from a police officer bent on giving you a massive speeding ticket. No, really. She doesn't. She pinky-swears. ;)

Ride Like the Wind
(Or: In Which Kitt Is Pursued and Michael Is Unsympathetic)

While lounging across Kitt's back seat, with his feet carelessly stacked on top of the passenger seat's headrest and his nose buried in a magazine that was illuminated by one of the rear seat's reading lights, Michael murmured a quiet, "Uh-oh."

He did so in response to the song that was queuing up on the radio station that Kitt had somehow managed to pick up, even though they were smack in the middle of nowhere. And sure enough, by the time the song's driving string section kicked in about twenty seconds into the tune, the stereo's volume was already cranked up to its ear-shattering maximum and the car had already dropped down into pursuit. And, as Michael pulled his feet off the passenger seat's headrest and then leaned forward a bit, so that he could peer with amused curiosity at the dash from the gap between the front seats, he saw that the speedometer had already clicked over well into the triple digits.

Rolling his eyes while shaking his head half in fondness and half in dismay, Michael slumped back into the back seat and returned his attention to his magazine. A moment or two later he said, loudly enough to be heard over the blaring radio but his tone otherwise mild and utterly unconcerned, "You're gonna get yourself busted one of these days, you know."

"And I've got such a long way to go/To make it to the border of Mexico," Kitt sang along with the song, and then he answered Michael, his voice dropping into a growl, "They'll never take me alive."

His eyes never leaving the magazine, Michael snorted in amusement.

"That's what you always say," he muttered as Kitt went back to the song…and to recklessly weaving himself all over the road. He was shifting vectors rapidly and sharply enough that Michael was forced to press a forearm against the back of the driver's seat, a knee against the back of the passenger seat, and a foot against the armrest over on the other side of the back seat in order to wedge himself more firmly into position. That way, he wasn't tossed all over the car's cabin.

"I was born the son of a lawless man/Always spoke my mind with a gun in my hand/Lived nine lives, gunned down ten/Gonna ride like the wind…"

Shaking his head again, Michael tuned out his partner, completely unconcerned that Kitt was slewing the sleek black Trans Am all over the road at very high speed. Kitt could handle it, of course. He was, as always, supremely in control of the practically indestructible vehicle, and he was, as always, intensely aware of and careful of any other vehicles on the road. It was just that, at the moment, there were no other vehicles on the road, at least not for as far as Kitt's scanners could scan. It wasn't surprising, given that it was 3AM and they were somewhere in the middle of a wide expanse of dry, desolate no-man's-land somewhere in southwestern Utah. They were heading home after a long and particularly frustrating case, one that hadn't ended especially well, and so Michael couldn't really blame Kitt for wanting to let off some steam. If he'd been driving and one of his favorite songs had come on the radio, he'd probably be doing exactly the same thing that Kitt was doing.

There was a time when Kitt would have chastised him, loudly, for doing so, but that time was long past, years past. Michael wasn't about to be a hypocrite and lecture Kitt for an understandable spate of steam-letting need for speed, mostly because Kitt would logically – and happily – point out to him that he was being a hypocrite. And if nothing else, even if Kitt hadn't been in absolute control of the potentially deadly missile that was the Knight Two Thousand in pursuit mode, it wasn't as if there was anyone around – except possibly jackrabbits – who could witness, much less be endangered by, Kitt's display of driving acrobatics.

Or so Michael thought, anyway. He thought that way for about a minute, until out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a pair of headlights and a strobing red-and-blue light bar appear and then begin to flash madly in the wall of moonless pitch-blackness that was otherwise spread out behind them. He turned his head reflexively to look out of the Trans Am's back window…and a slow and perversely delighted grin spread across his face.

"Accused and tried and told to hang/I was nowhere in sight when the church bells rang/Never was the kind to do as I was told…" Kitt was still singing, meanwhile, apparently and happily oblivious to his little friend on his tail, who was struggling to keep up with Kitt even though Kitt was at nowhere near top speed.

"Hey, speaking of 'accused and tried,' pal," Michael prompted, loudly. "Not to mention that whole not taking you alive thing…"

"What?" Kitt asked, almost distractedly, but he abruptly lowered the stereo's volume as he asked the question.

"We've got company, pal," Michael mildly informed him. "Or rather, you do, because I think he's wanting to have a few words with you, not with me. For once."

"Me?" Kitt responded, almost innocently, in response to which Michael made a distinctly amused noise.

"You are driving, aren't you?" he reasonably pointed out, with an unconcerned shrug. "And rather recklessly, I might add. Doing 137 in a 65 zone and weaving all over the place?" He tsked merrily, and added, "Ouch, buddy. Big time ouch."

"Well, yes, that's true," Kitt conceded. "However, our 'company' is not going to believe that I exist, much less that I was driving, so—"

"Ah, yes," Michael interrupted, struggling to suppress a snicker, "I can see it now: 'Why, yes, officer. I was driving the car from the back seat here. It's this amazing talent I have because my legs are so long.'"

"You could climb into the front seat, you know," Kitt peevishly informed Michael.

Michael snorted at that as he answered, "Maybe I could, buddy, if I was about a foot shorter than I am. And even if I could…Nah, not taking the fall for you this time. I did warn you, you know."

There was a silence that lasted for a few seconds, and then Kitt sullenly growled, "I hate you."

Michael grinned widely and then patronizingly patted the back of the driver's seat, just to be extra irritating.

"Yes, dear," he said in an exaggeratedly consoling tone. "I know." Kitt merely emitted a frustrated and disgruntled noise in response, so Michael sighed and added, a bit more seriously and perhaps even slightly sympathetically, "Look, Kitt. The way I see it, you have two options available to you. One: You can pull over, take your medicine like a good little boy, and then endure a big, huge nastygram from Devon about your big, huge fine. 'Course, if you do that, it's also very likely that you'll have to endure a long stay in an impound yard somewhere while the local sheriff figures out what you are and what the hell to do with you."

"That sounds like fun," Kitt grumbled.

"Doesn't it?" Michael agreed, way too cheerfully as far as Kitt was concerned. "On the other hand, you could, like the song says, ride like the wind and get the hell out of Dodge," Michael added.

"Or get the hell out of Utah, as the case may be," Kitt glumly answered.

"Mmmm-hmmm," Michael mildly confirmed. "And if you're gonna do that," he added, glancing back at Kitt's pursuer, who had managed to gain some ground while he and Kitt had been discussing options, "then it'd be smart to do it before your fan club back there gets close enough to get a good look at your license plate. Or else you'll still get that nastygram from Devon."

Kitt emitted a sound that might have been a sigh as he unhappily chewed on his two options for about three seconds, which was almost an eternity for him. And then he announced, resignedly, "Ride like the wind it is."

The corners of Michael's mouth jerked into a smile as he answered, "Thought you'd say that, since I know how much you love impounds."

"Mmm," Kitt wordlessly muttered in sour agreement. "Not to mention how much I love Devon's nastygrams," he added distastefully.

"So! Where are we headed, then?" Michael asked, still in overly cheerful amusement.

Keeping an electronic eye on his pursuer, carefully staying far enough ahead so that even the sharpest of human eyes couldn't get a good look at his license plate, Kitt quickly consulted his navigational data.

He answered, "The Nevada border is 152.7 miles away, mostly via larger interstates. Arizona's border is only 66.4 miles away, but the preferred route would involve smaller state and county roads, some of the latter in rather questionable states of repair…" The uncertain tone that Kitt used as he relayed the data was his way of asking for Michael's advice on the subject without actually asking for Michael's advice on the subject.

"I vote for Nevada, then," Michael obligingly offered. "Because I also know how much you love dusty county roads in questionable states of repair. And we have more friends in high places in Nevada than we do in Arizona," he reminded Kitt.

"True," Kitt conceded. "On both counts."

"And if you really punch it," Michael added, "you can make Nevada in, what? Half an hour or so?"

"Assuming that no obstacles present themselves, about thirty-four minutes," Kitt reflexively calculated.

"'About?'" Michael echoed, exaggeratedly perplexed. "And what's this? No seconds? No tenths of seconds? Wow, buddy, you must be really rattled if you're being so imprecise," he teased.

"The hatred is morphing into utter loathing, you know," Kitt mildly informed Michael, in response to which Michael only laughed. And because of that, Kitt felt no remorse whatsoever when he punched the turbo without warning and inertia subsequently slammed an unprepared and reflexively yelping Michael rather roughly against the back seat. He even felt slightly, smugly satisfied when Michael muttered a muffled "Ow," half a second later.

"That wasn't very nice," Michael complained a few seconds after that, once he determinedly pushed himself away from the back seat against which Newton's First Law of Motion was equally determined to pin him.

"I'm very sorry, Michael," Kitt responded, but his tone was not at all apologetic. In fact, it was closer to something like gleeful.

And Michael, rubbing at the shoulder that had collided at an awkward angle with Kitt's back seat, just snorted. He couldn't help being amused despite himself.

"And I've got such a long way to go/To make it to the border of Nevada," Kitt sang in quiet paraphrase a moment later, as he practically flew for that particular border at about 270mph. Michael chuckled at that while the Trans Am's turbine-driven engine practically sang along with Kitt. No doubt, it was happy to have a rare opportunity to really stretch its proverbial legs.

So, not even twenty seconds later, the dancing red-and-blue lights and the faint, wailing echo of a lone siren had faded into the far distance behind them…but of course, there was no guarantee that no one was lying in wait for them somewhere between their current location and the Nevada border. In fact, it was pretty much guaranteed that there would be someone lying in wait for them somewhere, perhaps in several locations along the way. Ticked-off highway patrolmen were like a pride of lions on the hunt that way, a few of them relentlessly driving their panicked prey toward their waiting, slavering comrades, comrades who weren't winded and weary from the chase.

Michael was unconcerned, however: There wasn't a roadblock in existence that Kitt couldn't sail over as effortlessly as Michael could leap over a small mud puddle that was in his way, especially so if Kitt was properly motivated to indulge in a little roadblock steeplechase. Dark thoughts of creepy impound yards and long, lecturing nastygrams certainly offered him plenty of motivation.

So, unruffled and smiling despite his still-twinging shoulder, Michael settled back into his magazine while Kitt fled headlong into the night.