@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.”
Thanksgiving was always a big deal in the family; Scott remembers it fondly, his mom playfully pushing his tio’s hands away from the pie as she baked, the kitchen filled with delicious scents, and then in the evening the warm autumn air would be crisp as they lit lanterns and ate on the patio, the sound of Spanish filling the air, all the Delgados laughing and joking and coming together. After eating too much food, Scott’s abuela would pull him into his lap and they would watch her favorite telenovela, and his parents would do the dishes together, his mom teasing his dad’s accent in Spanish.
Then they’d moved to Beacon Hills, and Scott still called his abuela and she’d pass the phone around to his aunts and uncles and cousins and as they had their big Thanksgiving, but it wasn’t the same. But Scott knew even at age six that the Move was important, it was good for Dad’s job, and Mom found a place she liked working too, so it was a Good Thing for the entire McCall family.
And then Scott met Stiles, and suddenly it was like the world was filled with color and bright things; things that he never found funny before were hysterical with Stiles’ stories, he loved the sound of Stiles’ laugh, liked how Stiles shared all his toys with him and even, he admitted later on the phone to his uncle, he was glad that Stiles bit Jackson on the arm for being mean and stepping on their sandcastle. His uncle had just laughed and said he was glad Scott had found a friend, which made him swell up with happiness.
Thanksgivings in Beacon Hills were at the Stilinski home; much quieter than the old Delgado ones, but Scott loved these, loved breaking wishbones with Stiles and eating way too much turkey while both sets of parents talked about boring grownup things, and then Scott and Stiles got to go upstairs and play with Legos.
Scott’s eleven now. Rafael hasn’t been to a Thanksgiving for a few years, but this year-- it’s the first year it’s official, paperwork and all. Scott knows what it means, knows his mom holds her head up high and doesn’t tell him that she worries about paying all the bills and she took that extra shift so Scott could have new clothes for school this year. He knows she misses her parents and cousins and the huge warmth of Thanksgiving but they can’t afford the plane tickets to visit.
“I don’t think we can do anything big this year,” Melissa said calmly when Scott asked her about it one night.
“But we always go to the Stilinskis’,” Scott says. “Stiles told me yesterday they--”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now for them,” Melissa says, giving him a stern look, like to remind Scott-- not that he needs reminding.
Scott knows that the blue Jeep that was Mrs. Stilinski’s is still parked at the elementary school where she used to teach, because the Sheriff hasn’t had the heart to move it, knows that it’s been a long year of his best friend watching his mom deteriorate in the hospital, knows that Stiles’ loud and brash voice has been traded for something new and quiet.
“I think it’s a good idea,” Scott says, jutting out his chin. “It’s just dinner.” Yesterday at school Stiles had showed him a recipe book; his mom’s old one, and he talked about trying to make the dishes for his dad, and asked Scott if he and his mom wanted to come over still. “We’re still family,” he says.
“Oh, honey, of course we are,” Melissa says, wrapping him in a hug. “I just-- I volunteered to work all day Thursday, and I know John did too, okay. You’ll be fine. We can do a big Thanksgiving next year.”
Thursday morning Scott feels strange, sleeping in, and he gets dressed quickly. After talking on the phone with Stiles, he walks a mile to the grocery store and meets Stiles there. The two of them buys what ingredients they can with their savings, and then they walk back to Stiles’ house together, carefully holding their grocery bags.
It goes terribly. They burn the turkey, and the sweet potato casserole is as hard a rock, and the only thing relatively passable is the potatoes. Scott and Stiles are sitting on the kitchen floor, taking turns mashing the boiled potatoes with a spoon, passing each other the bowl when they get too tired. They’re exhausted, though, already having spent hours trying to bake a turkey and different types of casseroles and finally giving up and going for the only thing the two eleven year olds can figure out.
“You’re supposed to tell me this is a dumb idea,” Stiles says, staring into the bowl. There’s tears starting at his eyes. “We wasted all that money on food that we messed up and no one can eat.”
“It’s not dumb,” Scott says, taking the bowl. “We’re having Thanksgiving dinner. It’s what you do when you’re a family.”
Stiles looks up at him, and sniffs. “You’re my family.”
“You’re my family,” Scott repeats, sincerely. “You and me and your dad and my mom and... And we’re gonna have Thanksgiving. It might suck, but the important part is that we have it together.”
Stiles nods, scooting forward and pushing the bowl aside to give Scott a hug. Scott hugs him back, and maybe for the first time this year-- of having to work so hard to hold it in, keep it together for his mom, keep it together for Stiles, for everyone, he lets it go. They’re both crying at the end of it; Scott can’t remember seeing Stiles cry at the funeral, either, but they hold each other for awhile and it’s enough.
John gets home from his shift and calls Melissa over; and the two of them clean up around the sleeping boys passed out in the bowl of mashed potatoes and then order take out.
Hi Carrie I was wondering if you'd ever written any sciles fic? you seem to love them and you're a fantastic writer I'd love to read it if you have
hi anon! thank you for asking! have a lil’ masterpost of what i have so far
on AO3:
Infinite Nights (T, WIP, 7k) Scott knows this summer is going to be the one, the one where he leads his first successful backcountry trip, proves himself as a leader and can start the transition from volunteer to paid staff. He didn’t plan to meet Stiles, the juvenile delinquent who thinks going to wilderness camp is a joke and has seemed to make it his mission to get into Scott’s pants.// Stiles would have gladly gone to jail for his latest prank on Jackson, but his great-aunt and his social worker Morrell seems to think he can still make something of himself. He doesn’t care about the trees and the view and the lake– Scott is nineteen to Stiles’ eighteen and Stiles is just knows they would be good together, but the guy is hung up on this counselor/camper thing. Between s'mores, skinny dipping, lightning storms, there’s plenty of time to fall in love when you least expect it.
I Had You Before (T, 838 words) Scott's best friend is not going to die in his arms. He's not, okay? He can't.
double your scott, double your fun (E, 2k) “Seriously, you are the only one in the world who would actually use a doppelganger curse to try and get ahead with all your homework and chores and stuff,” Stiles says. “I have a lot of responsibilities!” Scott insists. “Okay, but what about a responsibility to your boyfriend, c’mon, Scott,” Stiles says, pouting a little.
tumblr fic & drabbles:
hannah montana au
the first time they meet in the sandbox
first time parents sciles
spiderman!stiles and mj!scott
workouts that lead to lapdances (nsfw)
in which stiles does not die and there are love confessions
scott and stiles get de-aged and are cute toddlers who refuse to stop holding hands
losing liam in a ball pit
domestic headcanons
domestic + scott makes the bed while stiles is still in it
bb!scott and bb!stiles deal with scott’s first asthma attack
soulmates au + mutual pining
april fools day + blowjob jokes that are actually not jokes (nsfw)
At age three, they meet in the playground. The details always get fudged because no one remembers what happens exactly-- Scott was building a sandcastle, that much is fact, and at some point Stiles pees on it. Stiles insists to this day it was because Scott was sad there was no water in the moat. Scott insists he never asked for water he’d just been sitting there minding his own business and then this kid starting peeing on his sandcastle after Scott asked him if he liked it. Somehow it ended with a nickname and friendship.
At age five Scott’s dad leaves and Scott cries all during recess because his mom is sad and he thinks it’s his fault his dad left. Jackson makes fun of him and Stiles punches him in the face and gets sent to time out. Scott joins him in time out because he always holds hands with Stiles during nap time and he can’t fall asleep without him. They hold hands during the entirety time out.
At age seven Melissa and the the Stilinskis are used to the sleepovers, and there is a moment of panic when they can’t find either of the boys in the morning. It turns out they had both rolled off the bed and fell asleep in the space between the bed and the wall and were apparently too comfortable to move.
At age eight Claudia dies and Scott refuses to leave Stiles’ side the whole time. In an attempt at consolation young Scott tells Stiles, “We can share my mom,” which only makes Stiles cry harder, as young Stiles just wants his own mom back. Melissa finds them later, tear-stained but still holding each other, fast asleep.
At age eleven Scott is playing tag on the playground when he gets an asthma attack; Stiles doesn’t understand what’s happening but he yells for help; he stays in the nurses’ office with Scott and even goes with them to the hospital later, listening raptly to the instructions for the inhaler.
At age thirteen Scott and Stiles attempt to do a blood friendship pact. Stiles faints at the first sight of blood, so they forgo the actual blood part. Scott suggests they kiss; blushing only slightly. He has an explanation about how it would be for ritual reasons, but he doesn’t actually need to get into them, as Stiles’ face lights up and he says, “Yeah!” Stiles eagerly grabs Scotts face and they kiss; clumsy and wet and warm, under the tree in the Stilinski backyard, next to the place where they’ve just buried a time capsule-- photographs and memories and small toys, and a note that reads SCOTT + STILES FOREVER in messy handwriting.
It is a first kiss for both of them, and after they break they stare at each other, hearts beating in unison, elated and flushed, not sure quite what it means. In the time to come, they don’t speak about the kiss, but neither of them quite forgets it.
At age sixteen, Scott is bitten by a werewolf. Their lives are changed forever, but the promises they made to each other as children do not.
can you do a fic where stiles and scott get deaged? i don't care about anything else in it, just have that. and only if you're comfortable doing it, and if you have time. thank you babe!
Melissa takes one look at the two toddlers and her heart immediately seizes up. Scott waddles towards her, the t-shirt too big on him, still holding Stiles' chubby hand in his own. "Mommy!" Scott says happily, arms open wide for a hug.
"What happened?" Melissa asks, automatically picking them up in her arms. They're all soft and round, like they just stepped right out of her memories, Scott looking all of three years old and missing his two front teeth.
Derek frowns, looking at the two babies awkwardly. "Spell went wrong, but I need to catch up with the witches. I think Lydia found out where they are. Are you going to be okay like this for a little bit?"
Melissa bounces the boys on her hip, blinking back a tear. "I'll be fine, Derek," she says. Derek nods and leaves in a hurry, and Melissa sighs when Scott curls up against her neck and Stiles places a sloppy kiss on her cheek. They're so young and unmarred by everything like this. She kind of guiltily wants them not to find the witches for awhile, just so they can have a break from all the things they've been through.
"C'n Stiles stay for naptime?" Scott asks.
"Of course," Melissa says, carrying them upstairs.
"Naptime," Stiles says sleepily.
She tucks them into Scott's bed, and they curl up in the blankets, happy little smiles on their faces, holding hands like they're otters, afraid they'll drift apart in their sleep.
