Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and am not making a profit through the writing of this, monetary or otherwise.

A/N:Written in response to a conversation I had with kbeto. This is so far off the mark of what I had intended to write, kid!Stiles with a biting problem. It's in here, but not in the way I had envisioned it, sorry kbeto, hope you kind of sort of like this. Alas.

Please write a review...let me know if you liked it...or...

Derek pins a corsage to Stiles' suit coat seconds after he arrives to pick him up for the junior prom. His movements are stiff and jerky, his smile forced when Stiles' dad greets him with a handshake.

They've got a cover story for this that Stiles has had Derek rehearse for the past couple of days, because, if he's going to be forced to have a bodyguard to his own junior prom, then it's going to be on his terms. And, he doesn't trust Derek to come up with an excuse that his father will buy for this unprecedented event – Stiles having a date.

With a guy.

Except, it's not really a date, and Derek isn't exactly a 'guy.' And the 'guy' part of it isn't the part that his father will have a problem with, at least Stiles doesn't think his dad will mind that his first official date is with a guy. Well, non-date. The fact that it's Derek Hale might be more of a problem.

But, his father seems to accept the lie that Derek is attending the junior prom with Stiles because Stiles asked him to come with him to make someone else jealous – he'd explained it all to his father before Derek had arrived. The elder Stilinski isn't happy with Stiles' choice of date, still doesn't trust that Derek is one of the good guys, but, he trusts Stiles, and that's enough for him. He chalks the bid for jealousy up to teenage hormones and advises Stiles not to get caught up in such petty traps.

Up until this time, his father has only heard him pining after Lydia; Stiles hasn't been forthcoming with his recent ponderings about Danny, Jackson, Scott, and what it might be like to kiss one or all of them, or what it might be like to kiss an older man, like Derek.

Stiles is vague about the person he's trying to make jealous by using Derek. And perhaps that's why his father only puts up a minor fight with him about the whole thing – because he's not in teenage love with Derek, but using him for an ulterior motive.

Stiles inwardly groans when his father offers Derek something to drink and brings him into their living room. Derek takes a seat next to his father on the couch and Stiles knows that something bad is going to happen when his father reaches for the thick family photo album that's kept on the lower level of the coffee table.

Stiles doesn't remember his, 'I-want-to-be-a-werewolf,' phase, but apparently his father does, and right now he just wants to be sucked through the floorboards and into alternative universe where parents don't tell embarrassing stories about their kids when they're embarking on a first date.

Or, in this case, a first non-date. Technically not a date at all, not even a non-date, because it's Derek Hale sitting on his living room couch next to his father with the family album propped open on his lap and an awkward grimace on his face.

Though, well, Derek often has an awkward grimace on his face. Even when not being subjected to ridiculous and completely UNTRUE stories about the person he is merely escorting to the junior prom because of a completely unnecessary proclamation that he made.

Stiles imagines the werewolf standing at a podium, checking the mic first, 'Check one, two, is this thing working?' A wince and then reeling back when the microphone makes a high pitched squeal from the feedback, another little tap, and then: 'I, Derek Hale, Alpha of the Beacon Hills pack, hereby declare that: no one considered pack (humans need not apply) is allowed to go anywhere unaccompanied. And yes, Stiles, I mean not even the junior prom.'

And even though that's not quite how it happened, that's how Stiles likes to remember it. Not that a fictional rendering of what Derek Hale had actually said the other night when he'd appeared in Stiles' bedroom, unannounced, could be considered memory.

But, it is much better than what Derek had said, which was: "No one goes anywhere alone until I've got this situation under control." Then he'd disappeared, and Stiles doesn't even need to make that part up, because Derek Hale is like a freaking magician with how he pops in and out of places. The only thing missing is the traditional puff of smoke.

And, while that might explain why Derek is sitting on his living room couch, it does not explain why the guy is still listening to his dad regale him with tales, completely fabricated of course, because Stiles does not remember declaring himself to be a werewolf and biting people so that he could make his own little werewolf family when he was two or three or however old he was at the time of the alleged occurrence.

Nor does he recall howling at the moon and claiming that he'd met a real werewolf in the woods and that he was, "…'posed to keep it all a s'cret…" – and, his father did not just do a completely humiliating rendition of Stiles when he was a toddler.

Toddler! Stiles, as portrayed by his father sounded an awful lot like something between a drunken Kermit the Frog and Big Bird, and Stiles wonders, for the brief second that his father stops talking to take a breath, if things could get any more humiliating than they already are. Though, to be honest, he can't really think of anything that could be much more embarrassing than having his father treat Derek Hale like the man is Stiles' prom date, complete with the obligatory, 'when Stiles was young…' stories.

Derek's lips move in something that looks like maybe it's trying to be a smile, but Stiles is not quick to label, especially not when it could get his limbs torn off or something worse, though what could be worse than having one's limbs torn off?

"How many people did he bite?" Derek's voice is serious, and yet Stiles detects a hint of something like amusement in it.

"His mother and I lost track of it to be honest. He was banned from the local park for a couple of months after having bitten the mother of some twins on the butt. Guess she couldn't sit properly for a week."

Derek, 'Sourwolf', Hale, laughs, and Stiles can feel his face getting red. It really would be okay for the floor to swallow him now and end this non-date torture session.

"Dad, it's getting late, maybe…"

His father holds up a finger in warning, and Stiles clamps his mouth shut, but he makes a point of looking at the time and running his hand through his short hair.

"Just hold on son, there're just a couple of more pictures in here that I think Derek will enjoy."

The way his father's eyes sparkle with just a hint of mischief cause Stiles to narrow his eyes at his dad, but he gives up on making his father stop torturing him. And, with a loud sigh, Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and flops down on the armchair across from Derek and his father.

The manwolf now has something that Stiles might mistake for a grin on his face, if Derek Hale was someone who was given to grinning, and his eyes dart up to meet Stiles'. What Stiles sees in Derek's eyes – which are now a peculiar mixture of heather, green, and something dark, if that's even possible – causes his breath to catch in his throat.

Stiles has to look away, because in the midst of the humor that he can read in Derek's eyes, there is something that very much resembles the look his father often gets whenever he talks about Stiles' mom, and seeing it in Derek's eyes, when they're directed at him, is not only confusing, but downright terrifying.

"And this is when Stiles was five," his father says, pointing at a picture of Stiles with a wide, goofy grin on his face. He's half-naked and his arm is draped over Scott's shoulders. They've both got water dripping into their eyes, and this is something that Stiles actually remembers.

He groans, because, not ten seconds after that photo was taken, Stiles had slipped on the wet grass and grabbed onto Scott and, well, one thing had led to another and Stiles really does not want his father telling this story, not with Derek staring at him with intensity that is normally reserved for moments when something huge is about to happen – like the time when the kanaima paralyzed them and Stiles feared that it was going to kill his father, or the time that …wait, newsflash, Derek's stare has always been intense, and there's no need to freak just because he's splitting his gaze between the picture in the photo album and Stiles' face. It doesn't mean anything. He's just being polite.

"He and Scott were almost inseparable at that age, and," his father chuckles, "let me tell you, it was no easy feat getting them up and out of that mud – couldn't tell whose arm was whose, and which leg belonged to which boy. Never did find Stiles' swim trunks." His father shakes his head and frowns a little, but his lips are twitching, and Stiles vows that he will figure out a way to torment his father in a similar fashion before the day is out.

"Dad," Stiles interrupts, because, non-date or not, it is getting late, and he kind of did want to go to his junior prom, with a brooding werewolf as his chaperone or not.

His father looks at him then, and Stiles sees something that he didn't ever think he'd see in his father's eyes, at least not as it concerned him. It gives him pause, because, seriously . . . his father really does love him and he's not just been stalling by sharing funny childhood stories with Derek. He's been, in a strange, roundabout way, interrogating Derek. He hasn't been putting Stiles through the seventh level of hell for the sole sake of embarrassing his son, but he's been sussing out Derek, making sure that the man is good enough to take his son to the junior prom.

It's a sobering thought, and Stiles finds his heart swelling with love and admiration for his dad. He has the sudden urge to go over and hug his father, and so he does, because impulse control is something that he's still working on.

"I suppose that I can always share the rest of these with your friend," the way his dad emphasizes the word friend, makes Stiles think of a hundred different, strictly unfriendly antonyms for the word, "when he brings you back promptly at eleven PM."

"But," Stiles opens his mouth to protest, because that's an early curfew, even by dad standards, and he has plans to crash Lydia's after-junior-prom-party well before the dance ends, and that's bound to go on until one, two o'clock in the morning.

"Don't worry Mr. Stilinksi," Derek says, and Stiles watches dumbly as he and his father stand and shake hands, "I'll have your son back by eleven PM sharp."

"See that you do," his father says, and it looks to Stiles like his father and Derek are in some kind of handshake wrestling match. He's surprised to see Derek wince slightly and shake his hand out when the handshake ends, but he's even more surprised by his father's triumphant smile.

His father pulls a camera from out of nowhere, or so it seems, and Stiles just wants to get out of the door at this point in time. He doesn't need any more pictures to add to the family photo album for future 'real' dates to be subjected to.

"We should get a picture of this."

He poses, puts on his best, I'm-not-faking-it, smile and stands beside Derek. Derek's hand feels warm against his lower back, and his mind really has no business going anywhere south while in the presence of his father. Derek, up close and personal and not tossing him into a wall or threatening his life, is kind of nice and cinnamony, and his muscles are kind of nice when they're not being used to hurt him.

An insane number of pictures later, Stiles feels like he's been blinded, and not just by the flash of his father's camera, but by Derek's smile, which doesn't seem faked at all. It even reaches his eyes, and Stiles' own smile is a little less forced by the end of their impromptu photo session.

His dad claps a hand on his shoulder when Stiles reaches the door, and he pulls him back just a little, so that he's out of hearing range of Derek – except, well, for all of his sharing about how Stiles allegedly pretended to be a werewolf when he was too young to remember, his dad doesn't know that Derek Hale really is a werewolf, and that the man can probably hear them, and that's a secret that Stiles really is not supposed to tell.

"Stiles," the name seems to catch in his dad's throat, and when Stiles meets his father's gaze, he sees that there are tears in his eyes, and it's a little overwhelming, because this is not a date, and Stiles wonders what it will be like when he introduces his father to the girl or boy who has captured his heart.

"Dad?"

And, okay, Stiles doesn't do well with silent pauses that stretch out into what feels like an eternity even though it's only been a few seconds. Especially not when his father's looking at him like he's still that little kid in the picture that he'd showed Derek.

"You know that I love you, right?"

Stiles nods and he worries his lip between his teeth, because this is almost more awkward than what had happened in the living room, and his dad's kind of scaring him with the look of love that Stiles can see reflected in the man's eyes. It's almost too much love, and Stiles wonders what it would take for him to lose his father's love.

"And, there's nothing that you can do or say that will make me love you even less," he says.

Stiles wonders if his father's a mind reader, but he nods, even though he's not sure that if he told his father about Scott and Derek and Isaac, and the other werewolves, the man would still love him the same because he'd kept it a secret from him for so long. He and his father didn't do secrets; they'd always told each other everything, up until last year when Scott had been bitten.

"You know that, even though I'm not sure I trust Derek Hale, I am okay with this," his dad says, and he gestures, flapping his hands in a way that makes him look sort of like a bird, "you know, with your, uh, . . . life, uh, style . . . choices."

Stiles can feel his eyes going comically wide. He knows that he's blushing and, really, what his dad's said is sweet, but so very, very awkward. And, it's not just because Derek Hale can hear what his father's saying, it's more because, apparently his dad knows him better than himself, and he wonders how long his father has known about his interest in more than just the so-called fairer sex, and what else his father might know about him that he isn't sharing.

Stiles isn't sure what to say when his father squeezes his shoulder and then pulls him in for a hug, because he's kind of overwhelmed right now, but he leans into his father, and holds the hug for longer than is strictly necessary. He breathes in his father's familiar scent – gunpowder and aftershave – and then he breaks off the hug.

Stiles kisses his father on the cheek, like he did when he was little, and then walks out of the house, toward where Derek is waiting. "Thanks dad."

"Have fun, Stiles."

He returns his father's wave from beside Derek.

"Eleven o'clock sharp, Hale," his dad calls out.

Once Derek nods and moves to open the passenger's door of his car, ushering Stiles into the car like a gentleman, Stiles' dad retreats back into the house, but he can see his dad peeking out through the blinds of the window beside their front door, watching as Derek pulls out of the driveway.

Stiles breathes a little easier when he can no longer see the house. He wonders how long his father's going to stand at the window, and prays that he won't be there when Derek drops him off later that night.

Stiles leans against the window. "Sorry about that."

"What?"

"You know, the whole, embarrassing family photos and all," Stiles says, looking at Derek out of the corner of his eye.

Derek shrugs, tightens his grip on the wheel, doesn't look at Stiles. "I thought it was kind of nice."

"Yeah, right." Stiles sighs. "This isn't even a real date. I mean, you're just escorting me to the junior prom so that I won't be attacked by some rogue werewolf or other dastardly creature. If this was a real date, then that whole, look-at-how-cute-Stiles-was-when-he-was-a-baby torture would at least have made some sense. You don't have to walk me to the door or anything when you drop me off, that way dad won't be able to subject you to more of that."

"I wouldn't mind," Derek says, and Stiles turns to face the man, because there's something in his voice that simply does not compute, but it sounds an awful lot like he just might be telling the truth.

"So, you wouldn't mind sitting through round two of my father waxing nostalgic about my formative years?"

The shrug again, and Stiles wonders if he can shake that shrug out of the werewolf, because he wants answers not broody tentativeness.

"It was kind of nice," Derek says, and he quickly glances at Stiles, "I didn't really get that with Kate, and…"

"Oh," Stiles sags back against the seat, "so, it has nothing to do with me, but rather the whole awkward, can-I-die-now-please teenage angst that you're looking for."

"Uh," Derek pauses, and then he does something which Stiles would never have anticipated even if he'd been given a playbook with it sketched out for him, he takes one of his hands off the steering wheel and places it on Stiles' knee and squeezes. "Not exactly. I, Erica asked to escort you. . ."

"And?" Stiles isn't following, even when Derek's hand moves up his thigh. "You didn't think she would be a good enough Stiles sitter? You thought, what, that I'd give her the slip, or…"

"I wanted to do it," Derek says, and when Stiles looks at him, he can see a blush of pink rising up the man's neck and to his face, "I wanted to take you to the junior prom."

"Why?" Stiles asks, still not fathoming what it is that Derek's trying to say, because, in all of the time that they've spent prepping for lying to his father, Derek hasn't said a word to him about wanting to take him to the prom.

Derek's just gone along with him and stared dumbly at him, and . . . Stiles thinks that he might've missed something, because Derek's car comes to a screeching halt along the side of the road, and the next thing he knows, Derek's hands are cupping his face and the werewolf's mouth is hot against his, and they're kissing.

Stiles' brain disconnects for several minutes of tongue and lips and teeth and hands slipping up beneath shirts and touching and electric impulses that go straight to his groin, and then Derek pulls back and sheepishly ducks his head and apologizes, leaving him panting and pouting and wanting.

It isn't until Derek's starting the car again, and Stiles' fingers are gingerly touching his bruised and burning lips – can lips spontaneously combust from the passion of a kiss? – that he realizes what's happened, and, that he's essentially made out, in a car, with his date, and he hasn't even made it to prom yet.