Chapter Text
Buck was supposed to call 911. The thought cut through the static in his brain in Captain Nash's voice—calm, firm, non-negotiable. Take three slow steps back. Find the door with your hands. Get out. Lock the beast inside the concrete box. Then, and only then, reach for the phone. It was reasonable. It was correct. It was the only play.
Buck couldn't move.
It wasn't fear. He knew how to shove fear into a locker, breathe through it, and get the job done. He was a firefighter, and a damn good one, thanks for noticing. This was something else, something Buck had no name for. If someone asked him right now, "Buckley, why the hell are you just standing there?" he wouldn't have an answer. He just knew, in his bones, that the coyote wasn't going to lunge. Pack. Safe. The words hummed somewhere deep under his ribs, and that was enough.
The animal sat on the floor by the couch—absurd and out of place among the remotes, the throw pillows, and a forgotten coffee mug—and it just watched. No snarling. No growling. Ears up. It stared at him, steady and calm, and Buck knew that stare. He'd memorized it over years of working side-by-side with Eddie. Eddie always looked at him like that right before Buck did something monumentally stupid.
What the fuck?
Was this a dream? A bad trip? How the hell did a coyote get into the Diaz house? No, more important question: Why did the coyote in Eddie's living room have Eddie's eyes?
Not just the color—the look. Although the color was the same too: copper fired to gold around the pupil and cooling to black at the edges. Like the desert at sunset. You see that once, you don't mix it up with anything else.
The animal's ears swiveled forward. Attentive. Not aggressive. Buck's training kicked in automatically. He cataloged the details. Large frame. Wet, dark nose, unscarred. Fur a mix of gray and rust, matted in clumps on the scruff of the neck—the one spot you can't reach with your own teeth when you groom. Because there was no one else to do it. Because he was alone. That thought landed in Buck's chest with an unexpected, hollow ache.
Instead of backing away, Buck stepped forward and lowered himself to his knees.
The hell am I doing?
Slowly, very slowly, he extended his hand. Palm up. Fingers loose. An offering.
Buck held his breath. He'd seen what those jaws could do to bone. But every instinct screaming run was drowned out by something quieter, deeper: He knows me. I know him.
"Eddie?" he whispered.
The coyote cocked its head, and Buck would swear—the animal smirked. Not with its mouth. With its eyes. The way exactly one person on the entire planet knew how to laugh at him.
The coyote leaned in, close enough that Buck could feel the smoke and wet fur. Why wet? It hadn't rained in weeks.
Then he noticed. Fog was creeping across the floor, despite the heatwave melting the asphalt outside. Dusk was bleeding into the room, eating the edges of familiar things.
Dusk... at goddamn noon? Okay. Had to be a dream.
The fog curled around Buck's knees. And then it parted.
"Dad, you back already? Oh. Uh... hey, Buck?"
Chris materialized from the grey, and Buck jolted so hard he almost face-planted into the floor. Jesus, since when could that kid move like a ghost?
Wait. Chris? Silent? Sneaky?
The coyote sighed—a heavy, long-suffering sound aimed at the ceiling. Buck knew that sigh. Eddie made that sound every time Buck was being a total idiot.
The animal rose to its feet, padded right past Buck with casual dignity, and made a beeline for the kid. A spike of alarm shot through Buck's chest, but Chris just stood there like this was totally normal. Yeah, whatever. Coyote stops by twice a week. Keep up, Buck.
The beast nudged Chris's outstretched hand with a wet nose, rubbed its flank against the boy's legs, and then trotted off toward Eddie's bedroom without looking back.
"The Carnivore. Double cheese. Okay, Dad," Chris said, his tone utterly casual.
"The what?" Buck managed.
"Pizza," Chris clarified, grinning wide. "C'mon, let's order while he showers. The Nagual form always wipes him out."
Buck stared at the empty hallway where the coyote had vanished. His palm still tingled where warm breath had touched it.
"Right," he said. "Pizza. Sure. Why not?"