Title: Until the end of the world 2/5.
Fandom: Angel.
Characters: Connor, Faith.
Summary: Connor is patient. Faith tries to keep going.
Disclaimer: I don't own either of them.
She was slumped in a booth, nursing a can of Coca-Cola, weapons stacked on the table in front of her. She was tired, bruised and bloodstained, dressed in ragged jeans, combat boots, and a US Army-issue flack jacket. Military equipment was fairly easy to find; there was quite a lot of it scattered around, these days.He learned, later, that she hadn't slept in four days, had been living on caffeine and adrenaline. Despite this, when he walked in she had a gun levelled at his head instantly.
He had smelled her half a mile away, the scents of human and female and, above all, Slayer cutting across the slaughterhouse stench that the city still retained. At first, she had been a mere curiosity, a hope. As he neared, though, the smell became more familiar, and he remembered the fierce, vital woman who had hunted down Angelus and then beaten him bloody. He bore no malice over this; there had been plenty of time to think on the past, as he travelled.
There was neither recognition nor curiosity in her gaze, and he remembered Angel's spell.
"You're late." She said, and lowered the weapon.
Connor paused, and then walked past her to the fridge, deactivated and half empty but still full of cans of soda. He spotted a Dr Pepper, reached for it.
"Sorry." He replied. "Traffic was murder."
She made a sound that could have been a laugh and could have been a sob, and he did her the courtesy of not looking round. Popped the can, drank, paused, drank again.
"Where did you come from?" She asked, after a moment.
"West." He replied. He turned. She was still sitting there, Coke in one hand, gun in the other. Connor was fairly certain he wasn't bullet proof. She looked half dead, and he supposed he didn't look much better.
Her right hand, gripping the gun, was steady as a rock.
"I'm a friend of Angel." He told her, after a moment.
He was expecting a lot more questions, but she just nodded, clearly forming her own conclusions.
"Are you the last?" He asked, after a moment.
"Probably." She replied. She suddenly lowered the gun. "Get me something to eat, would you?"
Connor never got to New York. Faith told him there was nothing left to see, anyway.
They found a boat, after a couple of days. Neither of them knew much about these things, but as Faith said, it was their best chance. They loaded as much food and fuel as they could find on board, started the motor running, and didn't look back.
Connor didn't ask where they were going until they were two days and five hundred miles from America. They had just battled their way through a truly hellish storm; blood had rained down from the sky, the sea had seemed to boil, and twisted, demonic birds had flown at them in waves, trying desperately to tear the flesh from their bones.
Survival had been routine, but afterwards, when things had returned to what passed for normal in this time, Connor had been surprised by the care with which Faith plotted their position, following the guidance of a book on navigation and swearing inventively as she worked, and then set their course anew.
"Are we going somewhere?" He had asked.
"Yeah." She replied. "Rome."