Chapter Text
Wile E. Coyote was a toon who could be described with an absolutely unreasonable list of adjectives: genius, inventor, hard‑working, hungry, deranged, maniac, way too obsessed with a speedster bird that he might never even catch, etc, etc…
Why yes. Yes, he was all of those. But lately, a new word had been added to the list:
Thankful.
He’d always valued his own genius, of course, but only now did he truly feel grateful for it. After all, it was his brilliant plan that led to the recent improvements in his life.
And okay, mayyybe his original intention with the “let’s sue ACME” plan was less about exposing a secret conspiracy and more about cooking a certain bird. Still, uncovering decades of injustice, becoming an accidental symbol of perseverance, inspiring toons everywhere to speak up against ACME and any other mega-evil corporations, and making not one but three best friends in a single run? That’s… honestly, a pretty solid result against the usual falling piano over his head.
His grooming went to a halt.
Well. He might need to correct himself there. Actually, he made two new best friends, his humans Kevin and Paige, since apparently the Road Runner had already considered him his friend? over the last 77 years of their chase? Now that was another clog in the machinery that led him back to the word running in circles on his head.
Thankful.
Apparently, he was thankful to the Road Runner, the bird he wanted to eat, his rival, his enemy… that had shown up in Congress to say (or beep, in this case) that someone in this world did care about him. But that thankfulness again, was a very strange and warm feeling to have, as opposed to the typical bloodlust and obsessive hunger he normally displayed.
At that thought, his cave went completely silent until, after ten aggressively awkward seconds, a stubborn cricket finally remembered it had a job and started chirping. Wile E. turned from his makeshift mirror toward his nonexistent audience.
Hey, he’s more self‑aware than you think, okay?!
…
[ YES, REALLY ]
…
[ SERIOUSLY ]
…
[ YES, AND STOP ARGUING. YOU ARE NOT PART OF THIS STORY ]
Wile set the final sign down and went back to what was currently his second‑favorite life improvement after having friends: taking care of himself.
Everyone assumed that returning to the good old, non-ACME, artisanal hunt‑and‑fail routine would make him miserable. Weirdly, it did the opposite. He slept better. His fur got shinier, fluffier, practically glossy, especially across his chest for some reason. His fangs came back sharper; his ears stayed up and alert and he’d even put on a little muscle from all that sprinting and his weekly lunches with Kevin and Paige. Plus, the usual dark bags under his swollen eyes softened into something that looked like eyeliner (‘A killer fit,’ Paige had called it; Kevin said it was some Gen Z word for “good,” but if eyeliner could kill, he would’ve used it on the Road Runner sometime around 1979, or during its early‑2000s comeback, duh.)
He looked… good. Better than he had in, what, forty years? Who knew that not depending on a machine to do half the work for you would make such improvements to one’s physical and mental condition?
The beep-beep hit the canyon like a starting pistol.
Self reflection time was over.
Wile E. Coyote’s sprinted out of his cave to be met with, nothing? Nah, that's not right. His pupils narrowed into two offended little slits.
Looking… searching…
For any single crisp on the mesas, a flutter in the wind, some dust cloud that could tell where was his friend(?) hidden.
Because apparently, ever since he came back to the desert, Road Runner developed some kind of separation anxiety in which if Wile wasn't out of his cave by midday, the bird would hover around his cave, beeping, kicking rocks, stealing stuff or throwing tantrums until he went out and chased him.
Weirdo
“Beep Beep!”
See what he's dealing with, nonexistent audience?
On the far ridge to his right, the Road Runner stood in perfect profile like a “Wanted” poster come to life. Rather than a criminal’s placard though, he held a sign reading [ YOO HOO <3 ], his tail feathers artfully fanned and one foot cocked as he posed like a model.
“Beep-beep.”
Wile’s mouth filled with the familiar, righteous taste of this-is-my-job, washing away the weird-thankful-friend-warmth thing.
His body prepared on instinct: shoulders forward, claws digging in, legs coiling-
And then the Road Runner blew him a kiss and sped off.
Wile blinked back. Once. Then twice.
Just like another unrelated event, he decided, instantly, that it had been dust. Or one of those weird desert mirages where the air gets hot and hallucinates an insult at you in the form of blowing kisses.
In the distance, Road Runner gave another “beep” higher, somehow. Almost… sing-song like saying “I’m waiting for you~”
Wile took off.
The chase went off the way it always did. The Coyote sprinting with a fork and knife that magically appeared on his hands, blind with the determination (or delusion) of someone who got stranded on a island and swears can survive only via coconut water, while Road Runner glided ahead like the laws of physics had a personal crush on him.
Through valleys and canyons, over mesas and under the occasional rocky overhang, they ran and ran. Then, in the middle of a not-quite-loop-de-loop (because some other blue speedster franchise owned the name), Road Runner looked back. It wasn’t the quick efficient “Are you still behind me? Yes? Okay” glance. It was the kind that lingered.
Wile’s brain, valiantly trying to stay in a professional hunting mindset, offered a very professional explanation about checking surroundings and carefully looking out for an ambush. Maybe even checking there was no pesky ACME truck close.
Because Roadie—ahem! ROAD RUNNER! was definitely not checking to see if he was okay.
Nope. Definitely not, folks.
Then the bird blew him a kiss. Again.
The blue menace literally lifted a wing to its beak, then flicked it outward with a little flourish where a little red heart popped on top of it.
Wile nearly tripped over his own paws.
He recovered by doing a dramatic barrel-roll that he immediately pretended had been on purpose. He straightned back up, snarled to himself, and doubled his speed.
Road Runner’s eyes brightened.
“Beep!”
And even if after 77 years, the Coyote wasn't a total expert on what certain beeps meant, he swore over his dead father that one sounded awfully close to swooning.
Wile shoved the thought into a mental hole labeled 'Absolutely Not' and kept running.
They tore through a narrow pass where the canyon walls squeezed close. Wile leapt over a prickly pear, ducked under a low rock shelf, and because his reflexes had improved now that he was no longer routinely flattened, he actually managed to get within arm’s reach.
He swiped.
Road Runner didn’t dodge.
Instead, the bird hopped sideways, brushing past Wile so close Wile’s fur lifted with the motion.
So close…
His thoughts short-circuited. But because, of course, that was still how nature worked, that moment of hesitation was all the universe needed for a boulder to fall onto his back, leaving only his head and right arm exposed.
His mouth opened, but what came out was not a threatening growl. It was a noise like someone squeezing a rubber chicken.
Road Runner’s head swiveled with a delighted tilt.
“Bee-eeep?”
Wile, mortified, heaved the boulder over his shoulder and lunged again.
Except this time, he launched himself straight into an even worse kind of trap.
Not a pitfall.
Not a net.
His right paw came down on a perfectly placed, cartoonishly obvious fork in the canyon floor (that he dropped just now and not during the other parts of the chase somehow). His legs shot out from under him, his momentum spun him halfway around, and he landed rump-first in the narrow gap between the boulder he had just thrown and the mesa wall.
The gap was wide enough to swallow his hips.
It was not wide enough to give them back.
Wile planted both paws against the rocks and pushed. His shoulders strained. His claws carved twin trenches through the dirt. For one glorious second, he thought he was squeezing free, until his rear slipped another inch backward and wedged itself even more firmly between rock and rock.
He stopped.
He pushed again, harder.
Nothing moved except his tail.
He was, to the surprise of absolutely no one, stuck on his butt.
A few feet away, the Road Runner had stopped his escape sprint. The bird simply stood there, head tilted, watching every failed attempt with bright, fascinated eyes.
Wile went completely still, ears flattened in a silent, furious prayer to whatever desert gods enjoyed watching him suffer. Meeting eyes with the blue bird, the canine closed his eyes and braced for the taunting beep, or even cackled laughter before the smug idiot vanished into the horizon.
Instead, the Road Runner walked three steps closer.
No running.
No dust trail.
Just… closeness.
Wile’s tail twitched.
Another long moment passed. The canyon, ever the gossip, carried the sound of their breathing, announcing the stalemate in which the rivals now found themselves.
Wile craned his neck, trying to avoid the unnerving pit of the blue eyes that were analysing him like a predator about to pounce on his prey.
He gulped.
Road Runner stood there, facing him. Up close, the bird’s expression was unreadable, an inscrutable mask of beak and stilled chaos waiting to be unleashed. But his eyes were very, very bright… expecting? Hopeful even?
The Road Runner finally beeped softly and tilted its head.
The tilt was… different, though Wile couldn’t have said how. He had seen that tilt a thousand times before: the “Are we doing this?” tilt. The “You’re still playing, right?” tilt.
The “More chase?” tilt.
Except Road Runner wasn’t looking toward the open canyon. He wasn’t bouncing impatiently on his toes or angling his body for another sprint. He was looking directly at him with those enormous blue eyes far too bright, far too intent, and entirely too close.
They seemed to be demanding something.
What, Wile had no idea.
He stared back, waiting for the bird to remember that meaningful eye contact was not an actual language. Road Runner only leaned forward another fraction.
Wile’s ears folded halfway down.
Then, with the slow dignity of someone determined not to admit he was either confused or beginning to feel cornered, he lifted one paw and signed the only eloquent response he could manage.
[ WHAT ]
The bird blinked innocently and produced a sign of his own.
[ WHAT WHAT? :3 ]
Wile frowned. Obviously, if he knew what what, he would not have asked what.
He flipped his sign around and scribbled beneath it with sharper strokes:
[ WHAT DO YOU WANT? MORE CHASE? ]
“Beep-beep!”
There. Yes. More chase. A perfectly sensible request between predator and prey. Wile’s shoulders loosened right until the alarm on his watch answered with a shrill beep of its own.
He nearly jumped out of his fur as he remembered.
Kevin. Lunch. Civilization. One of those meeting-up-rituals that apparently friendships require to survive.
Wile held up a new sign perhaps a little too quickly.
[ SORRY. GOTTA GO. ]
Road Runner didn’t move.
Wile’s nervous little smile stiffened. He pointed at his watch, then signed again, larger and more emphatically, as if the problem might simply be the bird’s reading comprehension.
[ LUNCH WITH KEVIN ]
The Road Runner’s eyes flicked, just once, to Wile’s mouth.
Then back up.
Wile’s ears shot upright.
Oh.
That was… probably a threat.
Somehow.
Then Road Runner’s beak curved into the closest thing a bird could have to a grin, and the bird… stayed. Not running or doing anything really. Just standing there, perfectly still, like a statue in a museum that only existed to make Wile uncomfortable.
Yet Wile could have sworn he saw the tiniest twitch in the Road Runner’s eyelid.
The bird took one step closer.
His instincts started screaming at him to run away. To avoid the danger. That the way too wide smile and unblinking stare were his death sentence. Wile’s brain decided safety meant reassuring the bird.
[ I'LL BE BACK LATER. PROMISE ]
Road Runner stopped.
Wile swallowed.
He signed, smaller. [ ANYTHING ELSE? ]
The Road Runner rolled its eyes so hard Wile heard it in his soul.
“Beep.”
It was not the cheerful beep from before. It was a beep of annoyance at someone who’d missed a point so obvious his face would be in the dictionary after the word ‘Stupid’… or maybe ‘Slow’.
Road Runner gave Wile one last look that looked disappointed and then, with a huff of offended elegance, spun on one heel.
“BEEP!”
And vanished.
Wile stared at the empty canyon.
Then he stared at the rock that had betrayed him and his butt stuck in it.
He exhaled through his nose.
“Well,” he muttered, letting himself speak that single now that no one could hear him.
Wile wiggled free with considerably less dignity than he would later claim, dusted himself off, and jogged in the direction of civilization.
Lunch with Kevin.
An activity so ordinary, that maybe could help to shake off the feeling that he had committed a federal offense. Or at least be the place where he could receive a legal, sensible explanation for whatever the hell that... very weird chase was.