Derek Hale literally leaving to run errands and buy Halloween candy for children.
Because I took a nap and now I’m awake and it’s like 3am and I saw this
"…That’s why I choose L’Oreal MenExpert. Because the only thing that should look vintage and worn… is my jacket."
"Stiles. Stiles." Scott throws a glance over his shoulder. "Is he kidding me with this? Stiles!”
The spoon drops into the milk with a clang, the front of his shirt pretty much ruined. So it’s either smelling like sour dairy for the night or wearing the only clean one he has left with the basketball-playing sheep. Stiles scowls. “What the fuck, Scott?”
"You weren’t listening!" Scott explains, and it almost sounds apologetic. Almost, if not for the vague hint of amusement dancing in his bro’s eyes.
"Nah," Isaac calls from the doorway, where he’s leaning. Isaac leans, because he likes to pretend he’s too good for standing upright, or something. Which is bullshit, because Isaac isn’t too good for anything, and Stiles remembers that period in junior high when he straightened his hair. “He was just ogling Derek.”
"Don’t you have somewhere else to be unusually tall and not funny?" Stiles asks, holding the cotton away from his chest, but then he freezes, cocking his head. "Wait, who?"
Even Scott frowns back at that one. “Derek,” he says, like it’s obvious.
Stiles sets the bowl distractedly on the coffee table and mutes the TV. It doesn’t matter, his Imaginary L’Oreal Boyfriend’s commercial is only repeated once an hour, or so he’s noticed.
"Who’s Derek?" he asks with genuine confusion.
"The commercial guy," Isaac informs, gesturing at the screen like it’s obvious. "Doesn’t shave and looks like he just remembered something upsetting yet important all the time. Derek Hale?"
"As in brother of Cora Hale?"
"Boyd and Erica’s roommate?" Scott says, in a Stiles-you-know-this kind of way, which is rude, because he decidedly did not know any of this and there’s been a conspiracy to keep it from him.