-May 19th, 1939:: Yorkshire, England-
Werewolves, Coyotes and Banshee's didn't scare him. The supernatural was a means of unnatural and defeatable. The supernatural you could defeat, the supernatural wasn't supposed to be real and it wasn't scary, they all had weaknesses and Stiles found that as he and Lydia defeated them, he was no longer afraid of them. And so at 17, they left America for England and settled in a nice house in Yorkshire, England. The very house he was standing in at the moment, against the kitchen door, the light filtering the room a dull white. It hit his wife perfectly, how she was half shadowed and half lit against the counter, licking the frosting from the cake she made off her finger with perfectly polished red nails.
"Should I question why you're so late? No I'm sorry… Three hours late?" The strawberry blonde spoke up, looking up with a questioning look and her voice held a certain threat to it even if it was soft and kind seeming.
"Some inspectors came to the precinct and I wasn't allowed to leave or call you. I'm sure you understand," Stiles spoke up, still leaning against the frame of the kitchen entryway, watching her. How does he tell her? How do you deliver that kind of news?
"Inspectors?" She asked, befuddled. "For what?"
"Like… doctors. Checking our health and our rankings in the set…" Stiles walked forward, standing in front of her on the other side of the island countertop. Her eyes were dead set on him, that glowing green was dulled over with such confusion and fear.
"Is that so?" She asked, swallowing a bit before pressing a tight smile. "Well I'm sure its nothing."
"No its not nothing," he whispered and she shook her head.
"Its nothing," she whispered back.
"Lydia… Lydia listen to me," he said, taking one of her hands in his, kissing the veins on her hands, then her knuckles, then her palm. "They're drafting me in as a grade four sargeant. I'll have a troop to be in charge of, people to lead… more pay than a soldier would have but certainly less time off."
"What about Delphine? She's only five years old, what are we supposed to tell her?" Lydia asked, refusing to look at him because she'd cry. "What about you? What if-"
"I'm going to be okay, Lydia. And Delphine is going to be okay, I'll talk to her. We'll be alright. Everything will even out in the end."
"How can you be so sure? Didn't you see the outcome of the great war and what difference will it be now with only more advanced technology that they can lodge against you?" Lydia argued. He can't go, he shouldn't go, he wasn't going to- she wouldn't let him.
"We've defeated psychotic Alpha Werewolves, what difference is fighting on a battlefield?" There was a difference and he knew it. This, he had no say in getting out of. This was no easy resolution, not a quick and simple battle. Not: go home and take a rest after you've fought, maybe come back tomorrow to make sure you've really won. "Just don't think of it, don't let it get to you."
"You're not going," Lydia whispered, looking up at him. "You're not."
"I am. I have to, Lydia."
"No you don't," she insisted.
"They'll shoot me for cowardice if I don't go. And wouldn't you rather I have some chance at survival than none at all?" Stiles insisted but he was almost sure his wife wasn't listening and if she was, the information wasn't going through her, wasn't processing. To her he was being sentenced to death, not fighting a 'heroic' war. He wasn't going off to be a hero. He was going off to get shot. But he didn't think it was that simple, go and get shot. Even if he did, bullets could be removed, the body would heal. So he would keep going and he would push through, even if he was bleeding and even if he was wounded, men keep shoving forward because they have no choice. "Besides, you can get work as a nurse. There's talk they're going to let the woman join the naval forces and other segments. Wouldn't you want to do your part? We'd practically be fighting together."
"Yes but being in the navy is a lot safer than being out there," Lydia muttered, wrapping her arms around his torso, leaning into him, inhaling the warm scent of cigarettes and his cologne. Though, what normally comforted her, made her nauseous.
"I have a week until I leave," he whispered. "Training to be a military officer of sorts and then training me to fight. Because I'm the head of my precinct but even then, I have police grade training, not military. So I'm due sooner than others."
"Fair enough. I'm going to go put you dinner." She pulled away and went to pull his plate from the oven, setting it down on the table and grabbing utensils. "I'll go wake Delphine, just as she asked."
"No need," Stiles assured. "Let her sleep, she can see me in the morning, I've been given the week off to prepare. If anything, tomorrow I'll just take a half day, make sure my men are in place and then come back home." Lydia nodded, watching him. He met her eyes and she softened, trying to smile for him but being unable to. "I'll be okay, I promise."
"Are you okay now?"
"I'm not sure but that doesn't mean I won't be later. As long as I come out alive, there's hope isn't there?"
Lydia nodded, sitting beside him and quickly changing the topic, her daily dose of gossip never failing to amuse him. The meal was taken down rather slowly and afterwards, he insisted on going to bed. It was late after all, almost past the midnight hour. Though, through the night, it seemed like Stiles slept peacefully and she couldn't sleep at all. He was right there beside her, but soon enough he wouldn't be. And for a long time he won't be. She would have to be stronger than she was and push forward knowing he'd win the war for her and their daughter. He was strong, he would win, she had faith.
