chicating

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“Do you have any reason why I shouldn’t be?”
Without thinking, and not intending it as a taunt, Bunk began to hum “Hey, Nineteen,” under his breath. He never knew what would make him get these songs in his head: he could just be reading, or hearing something from the chat shows his wife watched, and it could be lodged there for hours. Given that he was murder police, he supposed he could get stuck with something more toxic, but that only made the habit slightly less annoying.
“Bunk,” Jimmy said, in that serious tone that Bunk knew was the first sign his friend and partner had had more than a few too many. “I’ll forgive you anything. Except Boz Skaggs.”

Faith doesn’t exactly haul ass across the country once her call comes in. She’s living by her wits in Boston, keeping half an eye on her mother more than her mother kept on her. It’s pointless; they do nothing but fight, so she ends up meeting some stuffy Brits in a motel room that smells like adultery, musky aftershave and instant coffee. She doesn’t think they are the same stuffy Brits, though, that explained why she was so much faster, and so fucking fearless, compared to the other kids in her nabe. (She hoped they didn’t remember Ma, with her bubble-gum lipstick all around her mouth but on her lips, trying to make peace since deep down, her mother knew just why she’d shattered “Uncle Ray’s” fucking stubby fucking fingers.)

That day, though, it had been like a sick kind of birthday wish. If neither of them admitted it, maybe they can go on in the same way. Maybe even pretend they are like other families and the next time Mom stopped drinking it would take, instead of being measured in days or weeks.

All of this is on Faith’s mind as she faces the pasty Brits, male and female, glasses on both. “Yeah?” she says, knowing they’d hate it. She is torn about whether to slouch or stand super-tall and thrust her tits in their faces. She slouched.

“Mz. Lehane, we need you to get to California, post-haste. The previous Slayer just drowned.”
Faith smiled, not at the thought of someone’s death(Not except Ray’s; she will never feel bad about that. Except that she didn’t cause it, maybe. Nasty little perv.) But she was finally going to get her turn.

“Happy birthday to me.” The Watchers made a face, then, as if they blamed her for the smell of the place. It only slightly dampened the feeling, like a birthday candle of pride, at getting her turn.

“Pardon?” The man said. “Frightful odor in this place.”
“Maid’s day off. If I’m gonna cross the country, I’m gonna need some money.”
“I hardly think…” the woman said, then closed her mouth and opened it again.