"Not particularfuckingly." Paul grits his teeth as he half-sits-up, glancing over at the spilled weaponry. Could he get anything ready, aim the crossbow at the door, something? In case she comes back? He's not sure he's feeling up to it.

You could pray, he imagines Connor saying, or Murphy, and the way they'd grin after saying it.

"Wouldn't, say, scalding hot coffee be--" grunt, ow-- "more-- apro-fucking-pos?"

Apparently Paul's releasing all that self-censored swearing now that Dawn is revealed to be evil. (Or so he thinks.) He reaches out past the edge of the camera's recording, gets his fingers on another bottle of the holy water just in case.