@quicklikelight asked for happy sciles headcanons so imagine:
Scott has just moved to Beacon Hills, and he’s worried because they’ve moved two times in the last year because his dad’s job in the FBI, but this time his mom put her foot down because she likes her new job at the hospital way too much and his dad can very well commute to San Francisco just fine.
Scott doesn’t understand most of this, because he’s five, but he just wants his mom to be happy. He’s glad they’re here in Beacon Hills, even if it means he doesn’t have any friends here and doesn’t know anyone.
"Buddy system,” his new teacher says in a tired voice, leading him to a little table in the back where another boy looks up from his crayon drawing, regarding Scott curiously. “Mich-- Mesch-- he doesn’t have a buddy yet. You two can be buddies, okay?”
Scott sits down on the little plastic chair and puts his Superman lunchbox on the table. His new buddy has a Batman lunchbox, which Scott points out with a grin. “Very cool,” he says. “What’s your name?” The teacher hadn’t said it-- or tried to anyways.
The boy pushes his paper towards Scott, where in clumsy crayon lettering and in bold are a bunch of letters. Scott recognizes an M and a Z and a W but he’s only just starting to figure out letters and reading and has no idea what sound these all are supposed to make.
“I like it,” Scott says, because he does.
“Wanna help me color?” the boy offers, handing Scott a red crayon.
Scott looks around the classroom-- all the other paired kids are working away at their coloring, and he’s confused about this new school system. He takes the crayon anyways and colors happily with his new friend for a bit, trying to learn the lay of the land. “What do buddies do?”
“We hold hands when we line up for recess, and then on the way back to class, and we walk together for snack and then naptime,” the boy says. “Like this.” He takes Scott’s hand and squeezes it.
“I’m Scott.” Scott squeezes back, pleased at making a new friend so easily.
“Mieczysław,” is the response, a tumble of pretty sounds, practiced, like a song. “You don’t have to call me that. Miss T always tries but messes up. She says if I want I can think of a nickname but I don’t know what.”
Scott grins. “We’ll think of something.”
