Chapter Text
A restless silver torrent batters the city, turning glaring neon signs into watercolored smears over the windshield of a black Ferrari. Occasional flashes threaten to awaken the entire city's skyline, before plunging the world back into the prevailing brooding darkness.
Sonny Crockett stretches, leaning back in the comfortable bucket of his driver's seat. A cigarette lingers between his teeth. His fingers indelicately drum against the steering wheel to the low strain of his radio. The sound is muted, he likes it that way. With a sigh, he eyes his emptied cup of precinct coffee. At the base is a shallow dirtied ring of what had been. The acrid taste of his last sip still graces his tongue. He should probably get another cup, but the effort felt like too much, and with the way his nerves teetered on edge, he didn't require a boost to his adrenaline.
Occasionally, his gaze turns to the stunning brunette in his passenger seat. She should have been a model, not a mechanic. The Foundation for Law and Government had him assuming his contact would be someone older, built like a tank instead of a daydream. He isn't disappointed. Dr. Barstow has to be the prettiest grease monkey he has ever met.
"You ever sleep?" A powder-soft voice beckons, and the undercover detective turns towards it without hesitation.
Edges of a shark-like smirk grace his tired countenance. "Sleep?" He scoffs. Tired eyes gift a small twinkle, courtesy of the light of the overhead neon sign that had flashed on. "Darling, sometimes I vaguely remember what an alarm clock looks like, much less sounds like." He can't remember the last time he let himself fall into a fitful slumber. Hell, sometimes Sonny could remember what day it was. It felt like drowning. Days bled into the next, and then the next seamlessly, like one endless strand.
Barstow understands that answer a touch more keenly than she wishes she did. Sonny reminds her of Michael. All bravado with careless sprinkles of charm. Yet, Crockett wore his different. Not a terrible different, no. One that felt insanely enticing.
"Besides, Ol' Elvis likes to turn them into chew toys." Crockett remarks, letting a breath escape slowly, in a way he can savor.
"Elvis?" She bemusedly parrots. For Bonnie, the mental image of Presley clad in his rhinestone get-up, chomping down on alarm clock parts was not something she'd ever considered before. If she focused on it too much, she could even imagine a strained chord of a rock and roll song to fit the situation.
She laughs in a way that snares Crockett's attention. It takes him a moment, but the connection is made. She must assume he's talking about the singer, or a rabid rendition of a dog. Sea-glass eyes widen, and his city-slicker grin returns. "My watch gator." He finally corrects the misunderstanding. Yet, he too, could almost grasp the mental image of his favorite singer as the destroyer of alarm clocks.
"Gator?" It is impossible to hide the surprise in her voice. Attentive turquoise eyes are now affixed fully on him. "Let me guess, standard issue?" It's a stab of humor. Michael Knight drives a talking car. She talks to and fixes a car that can actively respond back. Should the concept really be half as absurd as it feels?
Sparks of amusement color Crockett's face. "Sure, if you know the right place to look for them." His answer feels right in the moment.
Rain continues to pelt the Ferrari, drumming across the hood almost hard enough to drown the low hum of his idling engine. Down the endless boulevard, a siren erupts, wails, and disappears into the storm. Miami never slept. It only changes masks at the midnight hour.
Barstow, used to long shifts in vehicles, shifts slightly in her seat. It's nice to have the company of a man who doesn't work for the Foundation. She loves Michael, Rc3, Kitt, and Devon, but Crockett feels like a breath of fresh air. Of course, she hadn't spent four weeks with him in the Semi. So maybe that's why his presence is so welcomed. Her arms fold loosely over her chest. "You know," she muses, glancing towards the neon blur outside, "most sane people keep dogs."
Crockett snorts softly, in spite of himself. "Darlin', most sane people don't work homicide in Miami." After he says it, he swallows sharply. There might be a strain of truth to those words. He and Tubbs just might require a padded room one day. The thought of his partner brings a soft wave of fatigue back. It's different working without Rico. Different in a way that nettles under his skin. Yet, he does really enjoy the brunette's company.
"Is that your official police department explanation?" Bonnie questions. She can't even begin to picture Michael Knight filling out a requisition form for a "watch gator". Devon would think Knight had taken more leave of his senses than usual.
His answer is immediate, heralded along with a crooked grin. "Nah. The official explanation costs taxpayers too much money."
Another laugh escapes Barstow before she can prevent it. It is unmistakably warmer this time.
Sonny's next breath catches. He notices. Notices the way the flash of lightning highlights her stunning features. Trying to ignore a flittering in his chest, the detective turns the unlit cigarette slowly between his fingers instead of lighting it. "You always this calm?" He asks casually after a moment. "Or is the Foundation's training kicking in?"
Calm? He thinks she's calm? The revelation is a surprise. Flickers of a crimson blush spill warmly into the globes of Bonnie's cheeks. No. She is far from it. Peaceful composure under pressure is Michael Knight's thing. He is feckless but unflappable. Michael Knight is a storm. She had seen him tactfully navigate situations that made the hair on the back of her neck stand upright. He could treat a hostage situation like he was ordering breakfast, like it didn't faze him. Not even the viperous likes of Garthe Knight phased him. Bonnie swallows, "can I be honest with you, Sonny?" She turns to him. She makes no move to finish the thought with any sort of expediency.
Rain floods the gap between them instead, steady and undeterred, like the city has stumbled upon a scene and dares not to interrupt. His gaze returns briefly to the windshield and what little could be seen beyond before returning to her.
He watches her intently as she stills. Watches her for a moment longer than is comfortable, but he dares not press. "Sure," Sonny finally concedes with wisps of quiet strength and curiosity dwelling within his words. "Go ahead." He gifts her the invitation.
Sucking in a breath, her calloused fingers tighten lightly against her own arm. It should be simple to give him a response. Yet, it isn't. "I think," Bonnie hesitates, "this kind of work isn't my forte." She had been undercover with the Foundation as Alicia Craven-hall. "Don't get me wrong, it's exhilarating.."
"Why do I get the feelin' there's a but there?" Sonny softly interjects. He is a detective. He knows the sound of a faltering preamble when he hears it.
"I'm a cybernetic technician. I have doctorates in working with algorithms, numbers, and logic. I repair highly advanced technologies every day. Working undercover, on the front-lines, to help catch violent criminals, that's not something I wake up anticipating." That said, she is grateful for this opportunity. "I'm not sure it is something I could ever get used to." The violence. The cruelty. It could all be too much.
Attentively, he listens while absently rolling his cigarette slowly against his lip lower-lip. Outside, lightning crawls across the clouds and the rumble of thunder follows a second later. "Most people don't." He empathetically murmurs a second later. He isn't about to give a pep-talk, no half-hearted lack of assurance, nor does he give some Disney-esque performative speech about courage.
He shifts in his seat, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the rain-streaked windshield. "Thing is," he continues quietly, his voice unrefined like sandpaper, "people don't tell you that you ain't supposed to get comfortable with it." Crockett says it, like he has had dangerous flirtations with it in the past- because he has. Separating himself from his drug-dealing and gun running cover Burnett was almost impossible at times, when the lines blurred too heavily.
Abruptly, a police cruiser sped passed the intersection ahead, red and blue lights rippling over the storm soaked pavement before disappearing into the night.
"If you do," his voice breaks over the silence like a wave, "that's usually when something inside of you breaks." The words are the most vulnerable Sonny has let himself become with a woman. Usually, they only got shallower shades of him.
Barstow's turquoise eyes linger over his stubble ladened profile. His expensive jacket is crinkled, creases running so deep they might be caverns. His eyes hold perpetual exhaustion. His practiced swagger occasionally shifts, slipping just enough to expose the real man beneath the facade.
For the first time, Bonnie wonders how long he's actually been running on tapering fumes. It can't be good for him. Even running KITT that hard would burn out the engine, his shocks, and likely short out all of his delicate programming. "It sounds like you're speaking from experience," she says.
He chokes on a wry laugh. "Occupational hazard." He tries to ignore the statistic he once heard. Two out of every four police detectives will burn out within a few years. He can't blame them. This life, it isn't easy. It's hell on the old nervous system.
The radio crackles faintly beside them. Static chews through half a dispatch before clearing again. Sonny expertly ignores it. Hell, he doesn't even flinch.
Bonnie allows her head to rest lightly against the seat. After a moment, she decides it is safe to talk again, and this time, she breaks the silence. "Michael likes this part of the job."
Sonny's blonde brow arches. "The danger?"
"The performance." A small, tight smile graces Bonnie's lips. "The aliases, the improvising, walking into a room becoming someone else, and investigating." Michael excelled at all of it. She muses that he must have been something akin to a cat in other life. No matter how steep the cliff he was thrown off of, the man always landed on his feet.
With a tight smile of his own, Sonny remarks. "Your friend sounds like a hell of a character."
She laughs. "You have no idea." Dealing with Michael could be a uniquely enthralling and frustrating experience. He once defaced KITT's molecularly bonded shell with pathetic star stickers. It took them nearly two weeks to peel them all off, and even longer to scrub the glue from the slick black paint. "Sometimes, I think he enjoys getting shot at a little too much."
That sentiment strikes too close to home. His spine straightens. "That sounds familiar." There were a string of women, chiefly led by Caroline, who would say the same about him.
Their eyes meet briefly. This time, neither of them looks away immediately. An undercurrent of hushed, indulgent yearning begins to bloom in the space between.
Crockett doesn't race to fill the weighted silence. He doesn't rush to explain how being shot at is just part and parcel with the job. Instinct compels him to run his fingers along his arm over where a faded bullet scar lingers. It hasn't hurt in years, but somehow, now it chose to give a brief, quieted ache. Thankfully, his guest can't see it. Can't run her eyes over it in a way that would feel like pity. Sonny Crockett could handle a wide depth of emotion, but not pity. Never pity.
He finally reaches for the ignition key and turns it half way. The Ferrari growls low beneath them, all restrained power and expensive engineering.
Bonnie analytically inclines her head towards the sound. For a man who reminds her of Michael Knight, he takes exceptionally good care of his car. Or, so she would assume. The Ferrari's thrum is lively, not stuttered, not haphazard, not choked.
Her turquoise gaze instinctively moves to the dashboard. She blinks. There is a pang in her chest of longing. She is so accustomed to having buttons, lights, monitors, and cameras surrounding her, that reaching for them is second nature. Where there ought to have been a control for her seat, there is only the harsh reality of carbon fiber and leather. "You know," she starts, her voice even and measured, "KITT would hate this car." And a quite part of her does too. She misses the animation. She misses how sentient KITT is in a way that feels bones deep.
That earns a genuine smirk from Sonny. "Yeah?" He quickly quips, "what? Not enough horsepower for him?" But then he realizes, she must be referring to a car. A talking car with feelings, that was definitely new.
"Absolutely." Bonnie affirms. "It's too flashy. Too loud. Too emotionally insecure."
Sonny laughs outright at that, rough and warm and brief enough to feel rare. "What do you mean, emotionally insecure?" He repeats, his brows furrowing in amusement over the gentle slope of his nose. He hasn't heard an assessment of his vehicle like that before, and likely won't again. Certainly, never from a mechanic, or whatever complicated job title she explained she had earlier.
"He'd say the paint color is compensating for something." Although, to be honest, the color of this Ferrari Spyder isn't all that far off from KITT'S own. "And the expense and muscle makes up for it's lack of intelligence."
In whimsical disbelief, Crockett shakes his head slowly. "Your car talks too much." He can't hide the grin stretching across his lips. This had to be the most entertaining an undercover asset has ever been. Even Rico with his veggie burger outrage couldn't inspire this much amusement.
"You have a terroristic pet alligator that eats alarm clocks." Bonnie casually returns, her own amusement clear in the breadth of her smile.
She made an excellent point. "Hey, leave Elvis out of this." He returns, but there's no bark, no order in his tone. His eyes flicker over her in appreciation.
For a moment, the storm, the undercover operation, the endless tension wrapped around both their lives loosens it's grip enough to let them breathe. Their laughter fades gradually, chased out by another grumble of thunder rolling over the city.
Sonny eases the Ferrari away from the curb where they had been idling, tires hiss through standing water as the neon-drenched boulevard stretches out before them. Reflections slip across the sleek Ferrari's hood in fractured streaks of pink, blue, and sickly gold.
There is a sense of enchantment that Bonnie watches the nearly foreign city move around them. Miami at night is different from California. Though they are both large cities the pace isn't the same. Perhaps, its the warm salted air that comes from the Atlantic instead of the coolness that whips off the Pacific. Even in weather like this, the neon silhouettes linger.
Wipers drag rhythmically across the windshield. Back. Forth. Back again. Each time they cast tiny sprays outward.
"You nervous?" Sonny finally manages to gather the courage he needs to speak.