Chapter Text
The air in the desert is distinct from the air in Albuquerque. This is one of the recurring realizations Wile E. Coyote has in the early weeks of returning home. Out here, in the land of wide horizons and rocky outcrops, his sensitive nostrils aren’t overwhelmed with car exhaust or the cacophony of human stenches.
There’s no unpleasant marriage of nausea and hunger to fight off, as he’s not being assailed with the sticky smell of greasy foods at every turn – no, the desert is more reticent. Dust and heat keep Wile E.’s senses plateaued, the odd desert flora or scurrying reptile teasing the coyote’s olfactory receptors.
It’s better, out here, with limited variables attacking his senses, because when a stimulus does stand out, it’s that much sweeter, that much more alluring. It’s a vibrant pink flower blooming up towards the sky amongst miles of flat, pale earth. It’s the silver moon illuminating an otherwise pitch-black void at night. It’s an oasis in the place you’d least expect, when you’ve been lapping up your own saliva and sweat for a whisper of hydration.
It’s a plume of indigo and sky-blue feathers along with a bright-yellow beak, brilliantly striking and hard not to give chase to in a place where life is otherwise sucked dry and swallowed by a relentless, scorching sun.
Something Wile E. did not like about Albuquerque is that he would really have to focus to dissect the smells assaulting his nose to identify any combination that even vaguely resembled the bird he’s spent the majority, if not all, his life pursuing.
And that is saying something, because he’s confident he could pick out his Road Runner in a flock of hundreds, or thousands, of similar birds.
He’s spent enough nights pinching the vane of a dropped feather between the toes of his front paw and holding it to his nose, now and then eliciting a jolting sneeze when the soft edges tickled a little too deeply into his nostrils.
The Road Runner’s scent was unlike anything else. Wile E. has tried to come up with an apt comparison, but can never quite parse the right pieces together.
Not that it needs explaining. Who would he ever need to explain it to?
There is something the scent reminds him of, it calls to him like a warm memory. He deliberates on what exactly it could be for half a second, because the very source of his ponderings comes blazing down the road in front of him and brings a hefty gust of dust and rocks with him. Wile E.’s fur and ears are blown back, a nice blanket of desert coating him. He barely closes his eyes in time, and dramatically huffs to clean out the particles of desert that invaded his mouth and nose.
“Beep beep!” The Road Runner says in greeting, standing in front of the coyote, head cocked playfully.
Playfully being the key word. Before the bird stood in that courtroom, Wile E. would’ve pegged that look as taunting, if not spiteful and menacing. Now, everything with his – with this bird has shifted, because of what happened when he beep beep’ed into that microphone.
When Wile E. left, he figured Road Runner would be indifferent, or relieved, by his absence. Why should he be? At long last, he’d have a break from the coyote’s relentless, and often violent, daily pursuits.
He never expected the Road Runner to miss him. To ask if he’d come back.
It’s confused Wile E., it really has. He still chases, because what else is he meant to do – what else would get his heart beating and brain buzzing? He still chases, but in the past few weeks since returning, something has been off. Wile E. has been off.
Numerous times now, the Runner has found the scrawny canid frozen in an unexplainable state of paralysis. A few times hunched over on a boulder, elbows on his knees and eyes fixated unblinkingly on the ground. Other times, it’s like he is now; standing at the side of the road, unaware of the world around him with a dead stare forward, lost in the heat waves distorting the horizon.
“Beep beep,” Road Runner repeats, his long scaly legs taking a big step closer, boldly into arms reaching distance.
Wile E. shakes his head rapidly, fast enough for everything to blur and a warbling sound effect to accompany the motion. He comes back into his body, and observes the creature in front of him.
“Beep beep?” Road Runner asks, eyes darting to the side quickly then landing back on Wile E.
Are you going to chase me? Wile E. interprets.
He could. There’s a switch in his brain so easy to flip, and once it’s on, the hunt is on. It’s an all-consuming urge, burning through him like electricity until a shock of pain pulls him out of it, to which he either resets with a new tactic or calls it a day.
But today, maybe for the first time ever, he really doesn’t want to flip that switch. No, he studies the soft blues of the feathers in front of him, scans those tall legs, round body, slender neck and egg-like eyes with two dark stones fixed on him. His gut twists, but not from hunger. He’s despaired to find that he, Wile E. Coyote, is really not up to a chase right now.
Which would be fine in itself – maybe he’s tired and needs a nap, or to go and nibble some of that jerky Paige and Kevin keep bringing him, but he feels an aversion to those things, too.
He wants. He is feeling want. He just cannot pin down what, exactly. He’s only ever wanted one thing. It’s terribly distressing that this has changed. How could that have changed?
Wile E. cannot possibly explain this confuddlement and identity crisis to the Road Runner, even if he did ever find his voice, so in lieu of holding up a sign he just flattens his ears apologetically and shakes his head.
The coyote deliberately turns away from the Road Runner, perhaps for the first time ever, and decides to trudge the long walk back to his cave.
He needs to make a plan, is all. He lives and breathes plans. He doesn’t know what the final outcome is, but maybe if he sketches out some steps, some preliminary concepts, he’ll figure out what this hollow feeling in his chest is all about.
He’s a desert coyote. He’s known hunger his whole life. Whatever he is feeling now is not that.
Some peace and quiet will go a long way. He’ll collect his thoughts, plot a way out of this funk, and get back to his regularly scheduled business of trying to catch the Road Runner.
“Beep beep!”
Wile E. pauses mid-step, flinching at the squawk delivered right into his ear. The Road Runner, instead of leaving him to his contemplations, appears to have followed him and is walking in step beside him.
The coyote pulls up a sign, lips curled up in annoyance. [GO AWAY]
Road Runner’s curved smile dims, but doesn’t disappear. He holds up a sign of his own. [WHAT IS WRONG?]
With a huff, Wile E. keeps walking and does not respond. The bird has a short attention span. He’ll grow bored of Wile E.’s moroseness and go run laps around the mesas without a pursuer soon enough.
It is a little surprising that the bird follows him all the way to his cave, occasionally trilling and chirping a series of frustrated beep beeps at him, waving his [WHAT IS WRONG?] sign in front of Wile E’s face. The coyote focuses on not reacting, gravity feeling too heavy on his feet and eyelids.
He expects the bird to zip away when Wile E. enters his dark, crowded cave, because there are all sorts of hazards and traps within convenient reach. Should Wile E. change his mind about the chase, it wouldn’t to be wise to be in such proximity, but the bird carelessly follows him inside.
Wile E. stops abruptly just inside his cave, perplexed eyes watching Road Runner take in the disarray and clutter of his home.
Embarrassment washes over him – this is new. Why should he care with this frivolous bird thinks of his space? He, of course, doesn’t have an answer to that, so instead acts on his irritation.
Wile E. snaps his fingers in front of the bird’s face, no longer willing to entertain whatever game the bird thought they were playing.
[LEAVE ME ALONE. GET OUT.]
Road Runner reads his sign before fluffing up his feathers, meeting Wile E.’s harsh stare with a determined one of his own. “Beep beep?”
Wile E. flips his sign. [I AM NOT IN THE MOOD.]
Road Runner frowns then, a rare expression for him. Instead of responding, he glances around the space then zooms to a bear-trap like contraption laying on the floor before Wile E. can react. He maintains eye contact with the coyote as he raises a tri-toed foot and slowly lowers it towards the device.
Wile E. panics. He doesn’t think, his mouth opens in silent plead and he stumbles his way forward and rushes as fast as he can to stop the stupid bird from hurting himself.
Predictably, Road Runner lifts his foot up and out of safety, just in time to watch Wile E. fall head-first into the trap, getting his neck clamped down on by metal teeth.
Wile E. thrashes and snarls in pain, claws grazing the legs standing too close to him. There’s a click, and the trap releases him, allowing him to slide his head out and fall back onto his rump.
Road Runner looks down at him, foot hovering over the release button he’d clearly pushed for Wile E., and looks genuinely distressed.
“Beep... beep,” I’m sorry, he’s conveying, the sounds heavier and slower than usual.
Wile E. straightens out his painfully kinked neck with a grimace, unthinkably annoyed. He points towards the exit of the cave, glaring at Road Runner.
Road Runner shifts his feet, his tail moving back and forth with what looks like nerves. He pulls out a sign, tongue sticking out the slightest. [I MISS YOU.]
Something tightens in the coyote’s chest. Wile E. blinks, confused, but responds after a moment. [I CAME BACK.]
Road Runner makes a small noise, then lowers himself to Wile E.’s level, legs disappearing under him. [SOMETHING IS WRONG], he flips the sign, [MY FAULT?].
He can’t stand the way the bird is looking at him, because it was never like this before. They didn’t have conversations. Road Runner shouldn’t be worried for Wile E. That’s not how this dynamic was supposed to be. There should not be care or concern between the two – that was a bastardization of how predator and prey should act towards one another!
Bruising words from his father haunt the back of his mind, and Wile E. cannot take another moment of this. He pushes to his feet, needing to get away from this bird. [I AM FINE. I NEED SLEEP. GO AWAY].
Road Runner’s pupils grow in size, looking so pathetic and sad that Wile E. sighs and flips his sign. [PLEASE. I’LL CHASE YOU TOMORROW.]
[PROMISE?]
Wile E. rolls his eyes. When did this bird get so damn needy? He merely nods, feeling depleted of signs. Not wanting to entertain this discussion any longer, the coyote stalks towards his poor excuse of a bed, which is currently a pile of dead plants covered with various scrapped fabrics he’d collected from around.
Wile E. curls up, peering with one eye open to see if the Road Runner was finally leaving.
“Beep beep,” The bird says, not looking convinced. In a flash, he’s in front of the coyote, blepping his nose with his tongue, and then he’s gone, leaving any loose papers of WIle E.’s scattered throughout the air, floating with generous sways to the floor.
Wile E. wipes at his nose, eyes wide. What the Hell was that?
He doesn’t end up sleeping. He turns on the t.v. and watches re-runs of some silly human show and noisy, repetitive commercials until his eyes hurt so much his sclera are more red than yellow.