It's been years since Beacon Hills did its imitation Hellmouth routine, giving Stiles and his friends plenty of time to do normal coming of age things like finish college, get jobs, and settle down with a partner. Well, he'll settle for two out of three, even if being one of the few single pack members is irritating sometimes.

Even his father managed to remarry, although there will never be enough magic in the world to make him understand how Peter Hale got to be his stepfather. The zombie wolf makes Stiles' dad happy, and Stiles remains reasonably certain that the devotion Peter displays for Noah keeps Peter on the straight and narrow (or at least on a zig zag along the gray areas inherent to the supernatural). Despite being immune to human issues like clogged arteries, Peter took to the idea of keeping Noah healthy with a fervor even Stiles finds inspiring… even when it trails over to Peter deciding it's never too early for Stiles to worry about hereditary heart disease, either.

It will never not be weird to open his freezer or fridge to see Peter's strangely neat handwriting labeling lunches and dinners, though.

Still, it saves him from having to cook, or worse, risk his roommate's cooking, so he's happily rummaging in the fridge while his stomach grumbles and reminds him that he slept through breakfast. "Hey, Erica! You want enchiladas or lasagna for lunch?"

"Is there actual meat in either of those?" Erica yells, and he hears the telltale thud of her flinging wet laundry from the washer to the dryer. "If there's any of that jackfruit stuff Peter thinks is a meat replacement in anything, I'll stick to cereal."

Humming, Stiles squints at the labels, since Peter's food could really go either way. The jackfruit taquitos had tasted pretty good to Stiles, but he's not a werewolf, and he imagines the texture just wasn't quite right for Erica. He's discovered she isn't fond of tofu, either. "Portobello and poblano enchiladas, looks like. Lasagna is eggplant."

He hears the dryer kick on just before Erica pops out of the laundry room to huff at him. "Or you could cook us lunch. Something with meat."

She looks so sweetly hopeful that he laughs and closes the fridge. "Or we could head down to the new barbecue place down by the courthouse and see if their ribs live up to the hype."

"Seriously? Don't you have a deadline pending? I don't have to be at work until six."

It's nice that she knows his schedule that well, but the joy of running his online magical research and services shop is that he has plenty of leeway in how he spends his workday. Erica tends to work nights at the sheriff's department, content to let the married deputies have the cherished day shifts. She isn't the only supernatural deputy these days, but she's good enough at the job that Stiles suspects she's being groomed for bigger things, should his father ever actually retire.

"Not so close we can't go get lunch. I'm mostly done with translating those scrolls from Polish into Latin. I'd be done if the client had wanted them put into English, but she's firmly convinced that only Latin will work."

Not that he really minds, because translations give him a chance to exercise his intellect in the way of making amulets, talismans, and other small magical items doesn't as much anymore now that he's experienced with it. He knows Deaton looks down on the fact that he's monetized his abilities, but Deaton can get over it. There's just as much hard work put into learning what Stiles does as there is to being a druid.

"Alrighty then. How about you put on pants and we go gnaw on some roasted pig?"

Erica's toothy grin with its flash of fang might be for the barbecue, but she leers at his legs below his boxers as if she might eat them if he dallies too long. She's always flirted with him, but Erica flirts with everyone, every single one of their packmates, married or not, twenty years older or not, male and female alike. It's just part of who she is. She doesn't date, not that Stiles can say much there since the last time he bothered was over two years ago. There's just no one interesting enough in Beacon Hills, and he's not going to bother with some random out-of-towner.

Rolling his eyes at her, he goes to shimmy into a pair of track pants that he's fairly sure are Erica's and not his, but whatever. They're comfortable and they fit. If he wanted a job where he had to dress like a grownup, he'd have stuck with his law enforcement career plans.

The joy of the little house they co-own after their long-term landlord retired to Florida last year is that it's three blocks from the courthouse square. While Roscoe is still running thanks to better funds to pay for mechanics for the decidedly antique Jeep, parking tends to be tricky during the day due to all the poor sods with regular workday schedules. The weather is nice, warm without being hot or humid, and he reaches out to link his fingers with Erica's. She glances over at him, smiling brightly.

"Have you figured out what you want for your birthday?"

He shrugs. It's a week away, but nothing special, not like last year when he turned thirty, or back in February, when the pack went all out to celebrate Erica turning thirty. She'd been the last of the original pack to make the milestone and no one had argued the idea of a massive party. He suspects Derek will never forget carrying Erica's limp body out of that bank vault, Morrell's poison so deep in Erica's system that even the werewolves thought Erica was dead until Braeden taught them the trick the druid woman was known to use and how to counteract it. Peter argues that he's not the only zombiewolf in the pack whenever Stiles uses that nickname, but Stiles figures Peter's the only one who actually spent weeks in the grave. The moments that Erica, Isaac, Scott, and Derek have spent in the purgatory between life and death don't count the same way.

As for Stiles' multiple trips across that border, the less said the better.

"Want to go camping at Mount Shasta? We could get in some hiking or rock climbing, if your schedule allows."

He does the mental math and realizes that either through luck or plotting, Erica's days off next week do fall alongside his birthday. Suggesting a physical activity isn't unusual for her, because she may have been a werewolf for fourteen years, but she spent the first sixteen being restricted on anything she could do by her epilepsy. His self-made schedule means he's usually the one tapped as her adventure companion since her days off work don't always align with weekends, and honestly, he doesn't mind a few days spent outdoors.

"Sounds good to me. We can set up dinner with Dad and Peter either before we leave or when we get back." The joy of being over thirty is that birthday celebrations are far more mobile on when you celebrate with family and close friends.

They make it to the restaurant, and holy smokes, the ribs are everything he's heard they are. The server raises an eyebrow when he brings the sampler platter out to their table on the patio to add to the orders of ribs that Stiles and Erica are already demolishing, but they don't splurge into full carnivore often. Maybe they should, based on the level of sheer delight on Erica's face as she devours her share. By the time they're polishing off an order of fried pickles, a shadow falls across their table, and they both look up to see a very amused Noah Stilinski.

Noah holds up a to-go bag that is clearly labeled from a different restaurant. "Seared ahi bowl, son. About as healthy as takeout gets around here. I see you kids found the barbecue worthy of a visit."

Erica giggles and makes an attempt to wipe the evidence from her face and hands with the provided wet wipes. Stiles, unrepentant as always, just winks at his dad while scooping a bite of tritip into his mouth. Noah just rolls his eyes and plots the neglected bowl of cole slaw in front of Stiles in an obvious eat your vegetables move.

"Peter wants to know if you want to do your birthday lunch on Saturday or Sunday? I'm off this weekend." When Stiles immediately looks at Erica for her input, he's interrupted by his dad laughing. An arched brow gets him an answer. "Honestly, you realize that half the down thinks you two are married, and the ones who know better have a betting pool on when you'll take the plunge, right?"

"A betting pool? Seriously?" It doesn't really surprise Stiles, and Erica looks as amused as his father.

"Well, you already spend almost all your free time together, you own a house together… can you blame them?" Noah asks. "At this point, it's just legal paperwork."

"Yeah, well, most married couples share a bedroom, Pops."

Why does his father get the same look everyone else does when he says that? Even the wolves don't seem to believe him, and Erica shrugs it off that living together means their scents are so saturated that they're indistinguishable from the actual couples like Derek and Kira or his dad and Peter (not that he wants to think about that one, not one bit). Before Noah can press further on the issue, someone calls him away, and Stiles stirs his cole slaw and huffs.

"As much as he mentions us and being married, it would serve him right if we just skipped off to Reno for my birthday instead of Mount Shasta."

"If you really want to be a smart ass, the courthouse is right there."

Erica smirks at him, the wicked glee twinkling in her eyes reminding him of that long ago conversation on Boyd's porch about keeping his gaze on her eyes.

"It would shut everyone up, wouldn't it?"

She nods. "And it doesn't have to change a thing between us, unless we want it to."

"No, it doesn't."

Why haven't they thought of this before? He loves Erica and she loves him, and they both sowed all their wild oats back in college. So what if it's not some whirlwind romance like the movies? Most of their friends who have settled down didn't do so after a big, showy courtship. Maybe it's a pack thing, to drift toward each other after all the shared trauma, because no one else will truly understand, not even other supernatural in the know.

They smile at each other, and he feels the rightness of the idea slip into place, and it doesn't take long to stop by the sole jewelry store in Beacon Hills for a set of titanium bands inlaid with jade and obsidian. Ten minutes with the Deputy Commissioner of Civil Marriages after they get their license, and they're officially married as far as the State of California is concerned.

"How long do you think it will take anyone to notice?" Erica muses as they stroll back toward their house.

"You work at the sheriff's department. I'm pretty sure someone will notice if you start wearing a wedding band."

With an impish grin, she tugs on the chain around her neck, revealing the ring keeper hung next to the malachite amulet he'd enchanted for her when he was first learning how. "Bought it from the other salesperson while you were paying for the rings. Got one for you if you want one, since I figure there's always times you don't want jewelry on your fingers."

True enough. While his official profession doesn't matter, the occasional forays into the supernatural do mean that he'd very much like to not have his fingers squished or worse by a metal band around one of them. His dad wore a standard gold band even after Stiles' mother died, but nowadays he wears a silicon band at Peter's insistence. Stiles will have to look into finding something pretty online for Erica.

"You do know they're going to make us have some sort of celebration later, right?" Stiles asks as he unlocks their door.

"Are you really going to turn down a party planned by Lydia?"

"Not sure I'd be given a choice."

Erica just laughs and tugs him to the couch, queuing up their latest bingeworthy show and curling up against his chest. She keeps her face tucked into the soft skin of his throat, scenting him far more than usual, and he doesn't mind. Stiles presses a kiss to the top of her head, and he feels her give a little wriggle and make a noise that sounds far too much like a purr to come from a werewolf.

Today changes very little for them, except now they've promised each other that this warm, contented thing between them lasts forever, that neither of them ever intend to give up what they've found together, however unconventional it may be.

Stiles finds himself drifting off to sleep, lulled by the sheer joy the thought brings him.