Well hello there you, like romance do you? AU Flight? You are in the right place. There's only a little drama, but this fic is a love story at heart - so hopefully it'll mostly be swooning you do!
1940s AU War time. Fang is a bomb girl/photographer, spending her weekdays filling the innards of the bombs that will be sent to aid the war effort, and her nights developing photographs in her darkroom. Lightning is a Police Officer, living with her sister Serah and estranged from her parents. The war has been a way out from the stifling traditional way of life, but especially these women, who might finally have both the independence they crave, and to fall in love.
DISCLAIMER: The rights to these characters in no way belong to me, but to the Final Fantasy franchise. This story isn't affiliated with them - I'm just borrowing them a little while.
FANG:
The bell rang, and the rest of the working girls dropped their gloves and started towards the changing room doors. I carefully brushed the dust from my dark blue jumpsuit, tucking my gloves into the waistband of my called me over; "You coming Fang? We're going to the Ritz this evening."
"I'm alright, thanks. Going to head home - I've got some film to develop."
"Alright, see you Monday." A chorus of goodbyes followed me on my way out of the factory, and I headed on the long walk home. It was still light out; pink just washing gently over the clouds as the sun set. Later the sky would turn a deep red, and I'd wonder if that was the colour of the fields in France. I was filled with a pang of loss, but I wasn't sure what it was I was missing. I'd always been told I felt things too strongly as a child, with a temper so unlike that of a proper lady, and a laugh that came too easily. But this war, awful as it was, suited me. With the money I made from working as a bomb girl, I could finally afford to develop my own photographs, and of course, my own space to do it in.
Earl Street was quiet, the oak trees mirroring it were bathed that soft amber glow of dusk, and not for the first time, I wished that I had brought my camera to work with me. I unlocked the door to my terraced house; a small cat, the colour of cream, laced itself around my legs as I did so. "Alright, Mog, we'll get you something to eat as soon as you let me in." Dropping my satchel I headed to the kitchen, Mog still in tow, mewling for milk. I poured a little into a dish and placed it on the sideboard. He jumped up, pushed his nose into my fingers as a thank you and set about drinking his supper.
"I guess you've had a hungry day hey boy?" I popped a lemon sherbet in my mouth and headed to the basement that I called my dark room.
My camera, a Kodak Retina II, sat carefully on a shelf as I walked in, the door shutting softly behind me. I ran my fingertips over the shutter button that shimmered silver in the low light. Photographs hung drying on wires strung diagonally from the back of the stairs above me down into the basement, shuttered red and orange lamps coveted the far wall, a long battered table, covered in rolls of films and various pots dominated the room. A big basin stood resolute in the right hand corner, whilst a bed, layered with woollen blankets and cushions coveted the wall next to it. This basement would double up as my bomb shelter during a raid, and it was one of the many reasons I'd chosen the house. I swung the needle to the record on the gramophone, and "How High the Moon" rang out around me. I retied my head scarf and lost myself in pictures and colours.
It was late, or early, when the sirens started, accompanied by a pounding against the front of the house. Someone was trying to get in. To be safe. I jumped up, taking the stairs two by two to get to the door. Mog raced down past me, a flash of white. My heart was an animal locked between my ribs; whilst I may have somewhere safe to hide during the raid, others did not. I hurriedly unlocked the front door, and as it swung inward, a figure crashed into me. The ground shook, and I realised with horror that the bombs were already here.
"Hide." The woman in my arms choked out, but I was ahead of her – half-dragging her away from the chaos that threatened my home. I kicked the door closed and pulled the woman, stumbling down the stairs into the darkroom, locking up behind us. Dust fell from the rafters above us like snow. The woman fell onto her knees, and my hands slid away from her ribs, slick and wet with blood.
"Oh my god." I picked her up, helping her to the bed. She was shaking, quiet whimpers escaping her throat. I bunched up a cloth and pressed it above her stomach, placing her slim hands atop it. "Hold here, hold it real tight, okay?"
"I am sorry-"
"Shush now, don't speak. Don't waste your energy." I turned my gaze to hers, and her aqua eyes reflected the orange lights of the room, they flickered like flames. "And don't you dare apologise."
I ran some water into a basin, setting on the small stove to warm it. When it was hot, I rushed back to the bed. "We need to clean this. I don't have any hooch-"
"I do, it's in…in the left pocket. Trousers."
I undid the button and slid out a small hipflask. The strong smell of alcohol escaped as I unscrewed it. I set it next to the basin, and replaced her hands with mine. "What's your name?"
"Officer, Officer…Lightning." Lightning gasped as I tore her shirt to get a better look at the wound. It was long, a jagged slash across her ribcage on her left side. Blimey.
"Oerba Yun Fang, but just call me Fang." I tilted the bottle gently. "This is gonna hurt doll. Just hold on."
Time seemed to stretch, and minutes became endless. The only measure that mattered was that of the Officer's breaths laid before me. I'd cleaned the cut, and stitched it, bandaging it afterwards. It was nowhere near a neat finish but it was tidy enough, and it worked. Lightning had passed out from the pain somewhere around the middle of it all, whilst the walls shaking only just a little more than my hands. The sirens had stopped a while ago but I was still stuck in the same state that I had been when I had opened the door, adrenaline rushing around my body, leaving me tense, in a kind of unfinished frenzy. Although now exhaustion was beginning to drag me away from my vigil.
I sat next to her, unsure of what to do. Mog had taken a liking to our visitor immediately, curling up behind her knees. My gaze followed the lines of Lighting's figure, a wave of curves. Her shirt now lay in tatters on the floor next to me, and I'd tucked a blanket around her shoulders to keep her warm, trying not to look too much at her half-dressed body. Her hair splayed out in a sea of silvery pink across the mattress – I had never seen hair like that before. Her hand kept clenching, whilst she struggles within the clutches of either nightmares or pain, or perhaps even both. I slipped mine into it, finally calmed when our fingers were interwoven. As I drifted off to sleep, laid half across the mess of pillows on the floor and the mattress above, my last thoughts were of how beautiful a photograph she would make.