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Kevin had honestly never expected to count a cartoon coyote among his closest friends. And, yet, here he was for his biweekly visit to a small diner on the edge of Albuquerque, nursing lukewarm coffee and saving the better half of the fries, waiting.
The bell above the door chimed.
Kevin looked up, already half-smiling, expecting the usual sight of Coyote sweeping in with that newly reinvigorated posture - the one that had oh-so-coincidentally appeared after a certain roadrunner had started spending the night and a certain coyote had found his voice.
What he got instead was Coyote holding a sign up as he despondently plodded towards Kevin's table.
HELLO, KEVIN.
Kevin's smile faded. He raised an eyebrow. "You're late. And... we're doing the sign thing again? I thought we were past the sign thing. At least with me."
Coyote slid into the booth across from him, ears angled just a fraction lower than usual. He set the first sign aside and produced another.
YES.
Kevin watched him for a long moment. The polished voice that had startled him half to death a few weeks ago was nowhere to be found. No dry wit, no careful diction, just the signs, without an explanation.
"...okay," Kevin said slowly, pushing his plate of fries toward the middle of the table out of long habit, but Coyote didn't reach for them. "What's going on? You were talking last time we hung out. Did something happen with you and Road Runner?"
Coyote's ears flicked back hard. He hesitated, claws tapping once against the edge of the table, then flipped his sign around with deliberate care.
MY FATHER IS COMING TO VISIT.
Kevin blinked. Whatever he'd been bracing for - a fight with Road Runner, maybe, or another passive-aggressive letter from ACME's legal department like the two of them had been getting since the trial - it hadn't been this.
"Your... father?"
Coyote's shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. He gave a single, precise nod.
Kevin sat back. The pieces clicked into place with an unpleasant little jolt. Coyote's father - the vow. The one Coyote had told him about that afternoon at the cave, the childhood promise put on Coyote by an apparently genius of a father: not a single word until he had caught a Road Runner of his own.
And Coyote was talking now. Or... was.
And of course if Coyote would be talking when his father came to town, that meant the father who had imposed that silence would no doubt want to learn exactly how the vow had been fulfilled.
Okay. The signs made sudden, painful sense.
Kevin exhaled through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck. "Alright. So... you're nervous about telling him about Road Runner?"
Coyote didn't answer right away. He stared at the tabletop for several long seconds, as if the pattern of old coffee rings might offer better advice than Kevin could. Then he flipped the sign again.
I WOULD PREFER HE DID NOT KNOW.
"...yeah," Kevin said quietly. "I guess I figured that from the sudden return to signs." He leaned forward a little. "So you're going to pretend you're still chasing him. How's Road Runner taking the whole 'let's pretend we're not together while my dad's in town' plan?"
Coyote's expression did something complicated - somewhere between guilt and dread. He then slid a small note across the table instead of a full sign. Beside the words was a surprisingly detailed doodle of an angry Road Runner, eyebrows furrowed into a sharp V, a little storming thundercloud hovering over his head, one sketched foot raised as if mid-stomp.
NOT WELL.
Kevin winced in pure sympathy. "Okay... please tell me you didn't kick him out of the cave so you could make it look like you live alone."
A long pause. Coyote wouldn't meet his eyes. His ears had gone almost flat against his skull. Then, reluctantly, he nodded.
Kevin waited, and after a long moment, Coyote produced another sign.
I REMOVED ALL THE EVIDENCE.
"The evidence..." Kevin pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a mental image, unbidden and vivid, of the cave the last time he'd been to visit, a couple of days after Coyote had first spoken - the cave had been rearranged to fit two, and decor and furnishings fit for a bird had been added all around, mixed in with Coyote's things. "...and by that, do you mean you got rid of all of Road Runner's things too?"
A single, miserable nod.
Kevin let out a low whistle. "Oh, jeez. Okay. That's rough." He softened his voice. "Listen, Coyote... no partner wants to be hidden when the parents show up. Even if the partner is, you know. Historically the thing you were supposed to be eating in a soup for dinner."
Coyote's ears flattened further. He pulled another sign from underneath the table:
HE WOULD NOT UNDERSTAND.
"Your dad?"
YES.
Kevin turned that over in his mind. A father who had sat a little kid down and made him swear off speech until he'd proven himself through the successful hunt. A father who measured a life's worth in trophies and medals mounted on a wall. A father who had raised a son to be a genius predator and nothing else.
Yeah. Kevin could see how my son is dating the bird I raised him to kill wasn't going to land as good news in that household.
He drummed his fingers on the table, wracking his brain. "Okay. So we need a strategy. Temporary cover story while he's here. Something that explains why you're not currently in the middle of an elaborate ACME-based ambush every other morning - or worse, why you don't leap at the chance if he offers to help."
Coyote waited, looking faintly hopeful that Kevin would be able to think of something.
Kevin thought for a second, then offered, half-joking, "You could tell him you went vegan?"
Coyote's expression of cautious hope immediately dissolved into pure despair. He let his head fall heavily onto the table with a soft thunk, narrowly missing the plate of fries between them. One ear flopped sideways against the table.
Kevin held up both hands, fighting a sympathetic smile. "Okay, yeah, that one's weak. I hear it. Scratch the vegan excuse. Deeply scratched. Buried in the desert. Never speaking of it again."
They sat in silence for a moment. Kevin watched Coyote's ears twitch at every small sound the way they always did, hyper-aware even in distress.
After a bit, Kevin leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Okay, what if... Look. Hiding it is going to suck for both of you. Road Runner already knows he's being asked to pretend he doesn't exist for a while, and you already look like someone ran you over. So your dad's going to be here, what, a few days? A week?"
Coyote lifted his head just enough to hold up three fingers.
"Three days. Okay. Doable." Kevin nodded encouragingly. "When's he visiting? Like, next month? Gives us time to-"
Coyote produced a new sign with grim frown.
TOMORROW.
Kevin stared. "Tomorrow?" He resisted the urge to shout it. The word came out strangled instead. "Okay. Tomorrow. Not great. Not a lot of time to prepare a better cover story than 'I mysteriously lost interest in the bird I've been chasing for a bazillion years.' But three days of you not talking, of Road Runner camping somewhere else in the desert, of you both acting like the last several decades didn't just turn into something better... that's going to feel like a very long time."
He softened further. "And what about the next time your dad wants to visit? You redecorate every time? Kick Road Runner out of your shared space every time? Keep pretending the most important relationship you've ever had is just another failed hunt?"
Coyote's shoulders dropped a fraction.
I DO NOT WANT TO DISAPPOINT HIM.
Kevin's voice went quiet. He thought about his own father for half a second, and then set the thought aside. This wasn't about him.
"I get that," he said. "I really do. Trust me. Parents are complicated even when they're not legendary desert hunters with trophy walls. But you've already done the hard part, Coyote. You caught the Road Runner." He paused, then shrugged one shoulder. "I don't know your dad. Maybe he'll surprise you. Or maybe he won't. Just... I know you caught him. Maybe not the way the old rulebook said you were supposed to. But from where I'm sitting, that still counts. Hell, maybe it was even more difficult. I bet every other coyote in the desert couldn't have done what you did."
Coyote stared at the words on his sign for a long moment, before signing and putting it away behind his back. For a long moment he didn't produce another sign. When he finally did, the handwriting on it was smaller.
HE MAY NOT SEE IT THAT WAY.
"Then you tell him anyway," Kevin said. "You're with the Road Runner. That's the truth. And that's it. And if Mr. Coyote can't handle the fact that his son found something better than a lame trophy or a one-night meal, that's on him."
Coyote's ears lifted a little. He looked at Kevin for a long time, before finally he wrote:
YOU MAKE IT SOUND EASY.
Kevin huffed a quiet laugh. "Okay, well, it's not. It's going to be awkward and probably loud and there's a non-zero chance someone ends up stuffed into an ACME cannon and gets launched off a cliff. But it's the truth, and Road Runner deserves it. And you've already proven you're pretty good at doing the hard stuff when it matters. I've watched you do it before, and I know you can do it now."
Coyote's mouth twitched. He tucked the current sign away, then produced one last one.
I... DO NOT KNOW WHAT I WILL DO YET.
It wasn't really the clean resolution Kevin had been hoping to hand him, wrapped up with a pretty bow, just tell him and everything will be fine. But it did seem to be honest, and Coyote's honesty was something Kevin didn't take for granted.
"That's fair," Kevin agreed. "Just... don't forget about Road Runner the whole three days, yeah? Even if you can't stay together under the same roof, maybe try to talk to him if you can get away for a few minutes. Leave him a sign somewhere. Something. Don't let him sit out there thinking you're ashamed of him. Because you're not. I know you're not."
Coyote nodded and at last reached for a fry, and then - after a moment's hesitation - spoke for the first time that afternoom, his voice quiet.
"Thank you, Kevin."
Kevin grinned.
"Anytime. Now finish your fries. You've got a difficult conversation to prepare for, and I refuse to let you face your father - or an understandably upset Road Runner - on an empty stomach."
Outside the window, far across the desert, a familiar dust trail briefly appeared against the horizon and then vanished again - Road Runner keeping his distance, but still close enough to be seen.
Coyote's gaze lingered on it for a second longer than necessary. There was regret in his eyes, and something softer underneath it. Kevin hoped it was resolve. He had seen Coyote resolve before. It usually involved blueprints and an alarming amount of dynamite. This time, Kevin suspected it would involve something much harder:
Telling the truth.
Then Coyote picked up his fork again, and the two of them sat in comfortable near-silence while the afternoon light slowly turned the diner windows gold.
Kevin got the text two days later, sitting in the same booth, his fries going cold in front of him while Paige argued with him over who deserved the last onion ring.
He knows, the short text read, from a contact still saved simply as COYOTE - CLIENT. A pause, three dots, then a second message. I don't know what he thinks.
Kevin read it twice, then a third time, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Paige leaned over to read it upside down and let out a small, sympathetic noise.
"Did it not go well?"
"I don't know," Kevin admitted. He could picture Coyote standing in the cave, ears low, signing or speaking or both, waiting for a verdict he had spent a lifetime trying to earn. Kevin typed back: That's a start!
The reply came almost immediately.
Road Runner seems to think so as well. He has not left my side since.
Kevin's mouth tugged upward in spite of himself. Of course Road Runner hadn't. The bird had never been good at staying away from Coyote for long.
Did your father act okay around him? Kevin texted back, hoping the answer wouldn't be anything along the lines of 'no, he tried to stuff him in a soup pot.'
After a few moments, his phone buzzed with a new notification.
My father did not try to eat him.
Kevin smiled down at his phone in spite of himself, something warm loosening behind his ribs. He typed: That's nice, then let out a quiet breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He showed Paige the latest text from Coyote. She grinned and stole the last onion ring without further argument while Kevin typed one last reply. Proud of you. Both of you.
The answer came a minute later, accompanied by a photo that was slightly blurry but unmistakable: Coyote's cave, soft late-afternoon light, a blue roadrunner curled contentedly against a familiar tan side.
Kevin hearted the photo.
He stared at it longer than he needed to, feeling the same strange, protective fondness that had been growing ever since a certain coyote had first walked into his office with a mountain of defective ACME products and a silent, stubborn refusal to settle. Eventually, he set the phone down and finally reached for his own cold fries.
Outside the diner windows the desert stretched wide under the evening sky. Somewhere out there, in a cave that once again held room for two (and temporarily three), a very old chase had finally, quietly, become something else entirely.
That was the best any of them could have hoped for.