Another day, another death-defying injury . . .
Woke up just a little bit ago. Ben said I had quite a bump to the head, and some nasty slashes from the succubus' talons. Ben had Willow do a healing spell to expedite my recovery. My head still hurts a bit, and the slashes on my face itch a little, but I should be fine.
This is the last time I play hero . . . at least, for a while, anyway. I think the fact that I got taken down in the first round just goes to show I'm not really cut out to do the fighting just yet. In my world, as a general rule, the women do the fightin', and the men do the researchin'. And I couldn't be happier. I am perfectly content to do the looking stuff up. I suppose that's a Watcher's station in life; any attempt to do more than that usually ends up with said Watcher being knocked unconscious,
I tell you, I've never been so scared in my entire life as I was walking into that apartment. (Well, maybe when Willow sent that fireball after Jonathan and me that one time. She's a lot better now, though.) I tried knocking, and no one answered, as I'd feared. So out came that trusty credit card. (Which, it turned out, I didn't need anyway, since the door was unlocked.) I was totally quiet, but when I got inside, the succubus immediately attacked. (Thankfully, she did so in the living room, where I didn't have to see any Gilesian nakedness.) I put up my most valiant fight but she got the upper hand, and I went down for the count. This is me we're talking about. My most valiant fight doesn't really count for much.
The next thing I remember was waking up in our bed, with Ben looking over me, a cold compress on my head. And I kind of just basked in that moment for a good long while, before asking for a status report. Apparently, after Ben reported my non-return, Buffy, Bridget and Caridad mounted up and came in like gang-busters. Ben got me out of the apartment. Caridad actually beheaded the Bitch. (Sorry, couldn't resist an Aliens reference.) Anyway, good work, Caridad, and all the rest of the Slayers. You done good.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some more basking to do.
This is the last time I play hero . . . at least, for a while, anyway. I think the fact that I got taken down in the first round just goes to show I'm not really cut out to do the fighting just yet. In my world, as a general rule, the women do the fightin', and the men do the researchin'. And I couldn't be happier. I am perfectly content to do the looking stuff up. I suppose that's a Watcher's station in life; any attempt to do more than that usually ends up with said Watcher being knocked unconscious,
I tell you, I've never been so scared in my entire life as I was walking into that apartment. (Well, maybe when Willow sent that fireball after Jonathan and me that one time. She's a lot better now, though.) I tried knocking, and no one answered, as I'd feared. So out came that trusty credit card. (Which, it turned out, I didn't need anyway, since the door was unlocked.) I was totally quiet, but when I got inside, the succubus immediately attacked. (Thankfully, she did so in the living room, where I didn't have to see any Gilesian nakedness.) I put up my most valiant fight but she got the upper hand, and I went down for the count. This is me we're talking about. My most valiant fight doesn't really count for much.
The next thing I remember was waking up in our bed, with Ben looking over me, a cold compress on my head. And I kind of just basked in that moment for a good long while, before asking for a status report. Apparently, after Ben reported my non-return, Buffy, Bridget and Caridad mounted up and came in like gang-busters. Ben got me out of the apartment. Caridad actually beheaded the Bitch. (Sorry, couldn't resist an Aliens reference.) Anyway, good work, Caridad, and all the rest of the Slayers. You done good.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some more basking to do.