Him and his Slayer both, she thought -- but didn't dare say. In fact, instead of saying anything at all, she grabbed onto his blood-smudged hand and covered its redness with her palm. Hiding it from sight. Buffy never used to be this fatally troubled by blood. It had always been a thing of utter power, certainly. But she'd never feared it. Not the way she did now. Thanks to the General. Thanks to the zombies.

She drew his arm over her shoulders and settled her free hand on his opposite hip. Buffy stood straight and strong for him. She could be his body and he could be her soul, if those were the matching parts of themselves that both needed shoring up. She could accept that much mingling of an identity now that they were home and the battle was done.

Slowly, she urged him to walk once again.