Another from the vaults, because I like punishing myself by uploading old stories! Winter fluff with Michael and Kitt.

Michael woke up facing the wall of the small motel room. He squinted and rolled onto his back, turning to face the window. Through the slats in the blind, which he had been too tired to close the night before, a pure white light was filtering in, illuminating everywhere with stark clarity. Michael frowned, his brain still foggy with sleep, and sat up, running his fingers through his hair. Mornings on the road were either yellow with sunshine or dull grey with clouds and rain. White was a new one.

And it was cold, too.

There was a functional looking chair next to the bureau at the foot of the bed, which Michael had hastily used as a wardrobe. He padded over to it, stretching, and picked up his jeans. He gave them a token shake, his version of pressing clothes, and then proceeded to get dressed, staggering around on the brown carpeting. It was too early to get up, and too bright. Fastening his belt buckle, Michael wandered over to the window.

Little flecks of grey were spinning down through the whiteness outside. Snow. Michael's shoulders sank, and he sighed. This case was getting steadily worse. Beyond the windowpane, which was fogging up with his breathing and body warmth, everything was covered in a blanket of white. It was like a Christmas card from a trailer park, with the neon sign still fluttering red and blue beneath the flurry, and the shack that doubled as reception decorated like a gingerbread house. The highway was lost in the elements, apart from two wide tracks with dirty slush pushed to either side.

And directly in front of Michael's room sat Kitt.

Michael smiled. His partner, normally a sleek black Trans-Am, had turned into a cloud over night. Four or five inches of snow covered the t-top roof and the hood. Michael could see where the flakes had built higher and higher on top of the car. There was no wind, so the snow had just fallen straight down, frosting over the windows and the side of the car. Kitt's tires had a dusting of snow on top, where a few feathery flakes had drifted in, but most of it lay piled up around where the wheels met the ground. The distinctive 'bowling ball' hubcaps were nearly buried.

Michael lifted his wrist to his mouth, and activated the comlink.

"Hey, partner," Michael said, trying to keep his amusement at the situation out of his voice. He knew Kitt would hate this. The snow on the prow of the car glowed pink for an instant as Kitt's scanner activated, and then a steady oscillation of subdued red light began. "Looks like it snowed over night," he added, deliberately stating the obvious.

"I wouldn't know, my scanner is blocked," Kitt deadpanned over the link.

The windscreen wipers juddered up and across the screen, the snow piling up before Kitt knocked most of it off of the car. Two fan-shaped waves of ice were left. Twin jets of liquid fired at the screen, and the wipers passed from side to side again, as Kitt resorted to the 'eye' inside the cabin in a bid to establish his bearings.

"Snow," the computer groaned. "I thought being a California car would mean that I escaped such hampering, havoc-causing weather."

"Not up here in the high country, partner," Michael said.

"Well?" Kitt asked haughtily.

"Well what?"

"Are you going to come out here and dig me out? The least you could do is clear my scanner," the car complained. Michael pressed his lips together, stifling laughter. This was a double whammy for the proud black car: he was disabled, and he realised he must look ridiculous. Snowflakes were already falling back onto the windscreen.

"I'll be there in a second, pal," Michael acquiesced. He was about to turn the comlink off when he added with a grin, "Stay cool."

Michael opened the door to the elements fifteen minutes later, wearing a T-shirt, a heavy denim shirt and his leather jacket, in a layered bid to keep out the cold. He, like Kitt, hadn't really taken the threat of snow seriously when they started their journey. Plus, when they had first begun to tail their lead in the current case, it had been a sunny day in Los Angeles, and the possibility that they might end up miles out of their way hadn't even registered.

Michael stood shivering on the threshold of his room, rubbing his hands together. Kitt was battling with the snowfall, swiping his windscreen every couple of minutes so that he wasn't totally 'blind'.

"Right, buddy," Michael said, closing the door behind him, "Let's restore you to your natural colour, and get on our way. I'd hate to lose this guy, and have come up here for nothing."

He stepped out from beneath the canopy above his door, and immediately slid forward in the snow, nearly damaging himself irreparably as his feet drifted outwards in opposite directions. His arms pinwheeled as he tried to steady himself, leaning backwards at a precarious angle, until he ended up on one knee in the snow with his hands planted in the wetness at either side of him.

"You fail on technical merit," a tinny voice drifted up from his wrist.

"Shut up, you," Michael hissed, checking his surroundings for other witnesses as he clambered to his feet. He scooped up a hand of snow and threw it at his partner, where it exploded on the comparatively clear surface of the passenger side window.

"Unfair advantage," Kitt mumbled.

Michael stepped carefully forward, the snow creaking beneath the smooth soles of his boots. He pulled the sleeve of his jacket down and ran his arm over the rear window, clearing an arc in the snow.

"Ah, this is useless," he said. "I'm gonna need a brush, or something, or my hands will freeze." He stepped back again and looked at his partner's wheels. "Can you even move in this?" he asked.

"You're the one with faulty traction, not me," Kitt said, and started his engine.

"Watch it, buddy,pride comes before a fall."

Michael stepped further back, leaning against a four-wheel drive, as Kitt geared up to reverse out of his parking slot. The rear wheels spun furiously, found purchase for a brief second, and then started to spin again. Kitt rocked back and forward, revving his engine, as his tyres compacted the snow and made it even harder to move.

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Woah, woah, buddy!" he shouted over the roar of the engine, waving his arms in crossing sweeps. "You're going nowhere!"

Kitt killed the engine and said nothing.

"Don't race the engine - the tread just fills with snow, and you lose your grip," Michael explained.

"Clear the scanner," Kitt said in a flat tone.

Michael knew he was humiliated; every other time they had lost traction because of Kitt's tires, he had been the same way. Kitt, as Michael remembered him once saying, 'disliked feeling inadequate'. During the second year of their partnership, one case involving a sabotaged motorcycle race had found them out of the range of Kitt's capabilities, chasing one of the 'over-bred bicycles' up a steep incline. The bike had made it, but Kitt had slid and rolled back down the dusty track, and the computer had been furious at Michael for subjecting him to the shame of being beaten by something with two less wheels. April had compensated by fitting 'high traction drop downs', which raised Kitt's chassis from his rear wheels, but Michael knew that the experience of failing had stayed with his partner.

Michael cleared the scanner track with his fingers, unintentionally compacting the snow into the corners of the opening. The scanner track lit fully, as it did whenever Kitt first activated it, and then settled back to a steady sweep. Michael crooked his index finger, and ran it over the track once more. "Better?"

"An improvement," Kitt offered grudgingly.

Michael stood up straight, and rolled his eyes. "Ask Bonnie to design you a small scale wiper when you get home."

"I don't intend to ever need such a device. I'd prefer to leave the harsher elements to the car next to me, if you don't mind."

Michael glanced at the 4x4, and smiled.

"Ohh, I see your problem."

The manager of the motel stood with Michael, and assessed Kitt's predicament through a cloud of cigarette smoke. He stove his hands into the pockets of his thermal jacket, and rolled the tab into the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, these low-slung toys are no good in this weather. I'd stick to the city highways, or hire one of these," the stocky man briefly exposed a hand to the elements, and jerked his thumb at the four-wheel drive.

Michael exhaled slowly, his breath pluming into the cold air like the manager's smoke. "Well, thanks for the advice. How about some help in getting me back to those highways?"

"Sporty numbers like this'll fail you every time. You need something with more about it, friend."

Michael cringed, and thought he heard a louder growl from his impatient partner's running engine. "Yeah, well, we – I – didn't anticipate the 'seasonal' weather, that's all."

The manager dug his hands deep into his pockets. "From LA, or something?"

"Or something."

"Figures."

Michael sighed heavily, shrank down into his jacket, and stamped his feet to keep the circulation going. Like his partner, he had become accustomed to warmer conditions too. "I just need some sacks, or grit. You got those?"

The other man nodded. "You just wait right here," he said, and began to trudge back through his own footprints to the shack posing as reception.

"Did you hear that plaid-bedecked barrel of a man? He called me a 'toy'!" Kitt spat, as soon as he detected that only Michael was in earshot.

Michael rolled his eyes. "Think of it as your 'unassuming' persona, pal. Can't go around with your colours nailed to the mast all the time."

"And what more," Kitt continued, "could I possibly have 'about me'?" The computer was seething. His driver bit down on a smirk. "Bells and flashing lights?"

"Thought you had those already," Michael found himself unable to resist.

He stepped gingerly around to the driver's side, and used his sleeve to swipe an arc from the roof. He didn't think Kitt would appreciate an avalanche falling onto the upholstery when the door was opened.

"Get Devon for me, would you?" Michael asked. The dash was already activated; readouts and LEDs flickering as Kitt constantly monitored the car's status. As Michael dropped down into his seat, a brief chirping signified that a connection had been established. An image of a mature, silver-haired gentleman, crisply suited, gradually formed on the screen.

Devon glanced up from the paperwork he was filing into an attaché case, and then did a double take at the monitor before him. "Is this a bad connection, Michael, or are you calling from cold storage?"

Michael's brow creased as he squinted at the screen, and then he swept a hand back across his curly hair. A sprinkling of ice joined the snow already resting on the shoulders of his jacket, and his hand came back dripping water.

"We're stuck in snow, Devon," Michael told his employer. "I'm gonna free the car, and then we'll carry on after Petersen." He flicked the excess water from his hand, and then wiped his palm on his jeans.

"Did I hear that right?" Another voice piped in through the open comm. channel. Michael groaned inwardly as Bonnie appeared behind Devon on the screen. "How are you, Kitt?"

"Bonnie, I doubt I could find the words," Kitt answered softly, in the conspiratorial tone he usually adopted around his chief technician.

Michael snorted. "His pride's dented, and his wheels are spinning, but he'll be fine."

"Be careful of his alpha-circuits, Michael."

"I'll guard 'em with my life."

"Well, here comes our somewhat limited cavalry," Kitt observed.

Michael glanced across the cabin, but the melting snowball on the passenger window obscured his view. He rose to his full height and glanced across the car roof instead.

The manager, his head adorned with a deerstalker cap and bowed against the elements, was making his way back to the car. One of his gloved hands held a red-tipped shovel, whilst the other was curled around what looked like a KFC bucket. Slung over either shoulder, like a Roman toga, were two burlap sacks.

"Think that's breakfast he's got there?" Michael quipped, able to clearly make out the fast food container as the man approached.

"Grit," barked the manager, dumping the bucket onto Kitt's right T-top. "Sacks, and shovel." He shrugged the rough material onto the hood, and handed Michael the spade across the roof. Michael grasped where the metal joined the wooden handle with his cold, bare fingers.

"Thanks."

"Know what you're doin'?"

"Yeah. Thanks again," Michael spoke through gritted teeth. The hint was clear: dig your own car out.

"Oh, and here," the manager added, rummaging in his coat pockets. "Took pity on you." A pair of old motorcycle gauntlets was deposited in the snow left on Kitt's roof.

"You know," Michael grunted, kneeling on one of the sacks in front of his partner's licence plate, "when I was a kid, I used to love the snow. My dad would take us on vacations to places like this." He paused, and glanced at his surroundings. "Exactly like this. But it didn't matter. As long as there was snow."

"You liked this weather?" Kitt asked, his voice sounding tinny from the comlink. "The cold, the inconvenience, the hazards?"

Michael smiled. "Sure, 'cause when I was a kid, there was no inconvenience. My dad was the one in charge of the car, and he knew about driving in this weather and how to equip your vehicle. The only inconvenience to a young boy is having to eventually go inside and dry off." Michael launched another scoop of exhaust-splattered snow over his shoulder. "And the only hazards were falling off your sled, or getting snowballed."

"It really does sound as though you miss losing all sensation in your extremities and inviting hypothermia," his partner marvelled. "Once again, I can't imagine ever being a child."

Michael leant back on his haunches, and laughed. He ran the battered gloves leant to him through his hair, cutting off the drips at the end of each curl. "Ah, buddy. Best days of your life." He creaked to his feet, gripping Kitt's spoiler for support. "But as long as you're 'young at heart', hey?"

He positioned the remaining sack under Kitt's left rear tyre with his numb feet, and then crouched again to push it firmly into place. He had already scooped out around the front tyres, scattering handfuls of grit beneath the wheels. Michael hoped the back wheels would find purchase on the sacks enough to make it onto his haphazard trail of grit towards the highway.

"OK, buddy, I think we're set," Michael announced, raising his eyes skyward as he spoke. "Crank up the heat!" he called, as he skipped towards the driver's door.

The interior of the car, glowing red from the dash, was wonderfully warm. Michael, after abandoning the gloves to the passenger foot well, spent a couple of moments blowing on his cold hands to reawaken his nerves. "Let's get this first time, hey?"

"Is the honour yours, or mine?" Kitt shot back.

"A joint effort," Michael replied, slipping the transmission into 'R'. "You keep the engine going, I'll cross my fingers."