The glass bottle made a dull thud as Buffy set it on the coffee table with more force then was needed. The rich, brown liquor contrasted with the bright red wax seal on the neck of the bottle. Buffy and Xander looked carefully at the it. "It won't help," Xander said quietly.

"I don't suppose it will," Buffy said as she broke the seal. The smell immediately filled the room.

"Dawn get to what's-her-name's place okay?"

"Yeah." Buffy reached down and picked up the bottle, reading the label. "Did you know that the state of Kentucky owns the name `bourbon'? They only let people in the state use it. If the label says bourbon, it's from Kentucky."

"Really?"

"Yeah. My Dad used to say that when he had a few drinks."

"Was he a drinker?"

"Not really." Buffy sat quiet and pensive, looking at the bottle far longer then was needed to read the label. Xander simply stared straight ahead. Moving suddenly, Buffy grabbed one of the two newly purchased shot glasses and poured. She turned it up with only a flicker of hesitation. The raw whiskey burned its way down her throat, making her eyes water. It felt just like she wanted.

Xander moved more slowly and took his shot more deliberately, but didn't flinch from it. He looked over at her.

"Have you ever been a crying drunk?" Buffy asked.

"No," he replied. "I've seen my Dad get that way a few times. Sloppy drunk and falling all over himself and everyone else, telling everyone he loved them. A few times."

"But he cried, right?"

"Yeah, he cried."

Moving as quickly as the first time, Buffy poured and drank another shot. She laughed a clearly forced, almost hysterical, laugh and said, "Come on, Xand, drink up. We can't have me getting ahead of you."

"We can't have that." Xander took another shot. "First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you," he murmured as he put down the glass.

"What's that? Something from a movie?"

"No. Something my Dad used to say when he had a few drinks in him."

"That happened a lot, didn't it?"

"Yeah."

They sat silent, both staring at the nearly bottle. "Are we drinking all of that?" Xander asked.

Buffy nodded, "Yes, we are."

"Then we should have some water or soda, a chaser."

Buffy shook her head, "No. I like it. No, I don't like it… I want it. It's strong."

"That reminds me of a joke," Xander said, a desperation in his voice, "A guy walks in a bar and says to the bartender, `line me up ten shots'. The bartender gets the shots and says, `Are you celebrating something?' The guy takes the first two shots and says `Yeah. First blow job just now.' The Bartender starts to say congratulations, but the guy goes on, `and if this doesn't get the taste out of my mouth, nothing will.'"

"That's not funny, Xander."

"I know it isn't."

After a time, the bottle was a half gone. Both of them were glassy eyed and drunk. They had talked a little about nothing. Suddenly, Xander looked at his watch. "It's eleven," he said. "He'll be on the news." The television had been on and silent, neither of them paying attention to it. Now they were equally unsure if they should turn up or turn it off.

"I want to hear what they say," Buffy said, picking up the remote and increasing the volume.

On the screen was a woman in a police uniform at a podium. The caption read "Police spokesperson." The sound cut into the middle of a sentence. "...and following a lead provided by concerned citizens, officers entered the house and found the bodies of four deceased persons that matched the descriptions of the missing..." Even in the practiced, measured monotone a hitch was apparent, "individuals. Once a positive identification has been made, relatives will be notified." Buffy killed the sound, noticing that some of the faces in the crowd of reporters were recognizable from national news broadcasts. Sunnydale was news.

"She almost didn't say `individuals'," Xander said.

"I wonder what she almost said," Buffy said bitterly, "I wonder if that woman has kids."

Buffy poured herself another shot of rich Kentucky bourbon, filling the glass completely, and turned it up. Xander took a smaller sht. She reached for the bottle again, but Xander stopped her. "Let it soak in for a minute," he said.

"I want it to soak in," she said, "I want it to soak into my goddamned brain." She drew in a shuddering breath. When she spoke again, she did so slowly and deliberately, carefully emphasizing each word, "I. Feel. Filthy." She took another breath and visibly composed herself.

"So do I," Xander whispered. He wanted for a moment to reach for her, to touch her and try to find or give some comfort. He raised his hand, groping empty air and realized he was very, very drunk.

She drew the back of her hand across her face, not caring that she still held the shot glass. The dregs of liquor dripped out unnoticed onto her chest. "You tell me," she said to Xander. "You're a man so you tell me. What can a man want from a little girl?"

"Jesus, I don't know," Xander said.

"Don't you?" Buffy said softly, her voice slurred and husky. "Hasn't it ever happened to you? You see some healthy, pretty eleven year old and..." She made an unclear gesture.

Xander shook his head and looked down. "No," he finally said, "Not with little girls like that but a fourteen or fifteen, maybe." His voice trailed off. "Sometimes..."

Buffy stared at him. "I want to be surprised but I'm not. You think that guys who think that are sick."

"The ones who act on it are," he said.

"So," Buffy said, "You want to fuck fourteen year old girls."

"Buffy," Xander said in a warning tone, but she interrupted him.

"No, it's just a guy thing. It's okay. Do you talk about it at work with the boys? Do you think, `Gee, she's got breasts so it's okay,'?"

"Don't you attack me," he snarled, glaring drunkenly at her. "Not tonight."

"But why, Xander?" Buffy's voice was becoming a whine in her intoxication.

"He was a monster. It's different... you can't even begin to equate looking at a mature teenager and finding her sexually attractive without acting on it and..." He took a shuddering breath. "You can't compare it."

Buffy sighed. "He was just a stupid, sick little man."

"Not any more," Xander said quietly.

Detective Edward Thompson stood at the mouth of the alley and waited. He reached into his pocket for an antacid, his fifth of the night. He
popped one in his mouth and, after a brief consideration, added a second for a count of six. The he reached in his other pocket for a cigarette, his twenty fifth of the night. The night had started as good as this kind of night could for him; he didn't have to go to one particular crime scene. He got a nice, easy random killing to play with.

It had taken a few minutes for the address on the victim's driver's license to register on him. Now he was waiting for his captain.

He glanced over to where a uniformed officer was talking to an apartment resident from across the street. Apparently, the guy had a problem with insomnia and liked looking out his window. That was good. It was pretty open and shut, all things considered.

He watched a plain car pull up. "Hey, Mike," he said to the older man who got out.

"Tell me a story, Eddie, and make it a happy one."

"One victim, in the alley. Stabbing, one wound, clean through the heart. He got beat up some first. The place is a bloodbath. Victim's ID lists his address as the place... you were just at."

"That's a story," the police captain said, "but I don't know how happy it is."

"There's more. A witness across the street was looking out his window. He saw two people. He said he noticed them because the woman was hot. So we have a hot, little blond and a big, dark haired guy going into this alley."

"A couple," Mike remarked.

"Could very well be." Eddie replied.

"What happened then?"

"The witness heard one scream. There could have been more but he said he wouldn't have heard it. Then the blond woman and dark haired man come out of the alley. He said he got a good look at them."

"A couple could have a kid," Mike said.

"They sure could," Eddie agreed.

"Anything else?"

"Hand print on one wall, in what is probably the victim's blood; man's hand, too big for the victim. One clear foot print, a woman's running shoe." Eddie shined his penlight on the wall to illuminate the hand print.

Jimmy nodded. A clear set of fingerprints, a good shoe print, and a clear-eyed witness. Few murders were this promising. Anyone could get an arrest and a conviction. He stepped closer to the wall and looked at the hand print.

He reflected that a couple could indeed have a little girl, and that they could have made an anonymous phone call. Taking out his handkerchief, he swept it across the mark, smearing it beyond recognition. "It's a goddamned shame, Eddie," he said, "when something like this happens and we don't have a chance in hell of finding out who did it."

"It's a fucking tragedy, boss."