The shriek rung in his ears and Scott nearly stumbled, pressing his free hand to his ear as he walked over to the lad’s mother. “Rassilon ‘e’s got some lungs on ‘im eh?” He asked her with a wince, setting him back on the ground and quickly shoving one of his Chocomint wafers into the child’s mouth. “What that really necessary?” He asked the kid, lifting an eyebrow. “Ye normally scream when someone’s kidnapped ye, not when they’re takin’ ye back t’yer ma, kiddo.”
The moment his feet touched solid ground again, he stumbled away from Scott, spitting out whatever Scott put in his mouth in shock. “Ye picked me up,” he complained, sounding more whiny and less accusing than he wanted. It didn’t help that his eyes started to water. “I th-“
Cam wiped at his eyes angrily, took a few shaky breaths before yelling. “Mom!” He didn’t take his eyes off Scott in the meantime, skittish like a wild animal. That weird longhaired guy had just picked him up and had started taking him somewhere and he’d said it was to his mother but maybe he’d been lying his mum had always told him not to talk to strangers maybe this was why. “Moooooom!”
"Ye ran int’me." Scott said back, propping a hand on his hip. "Jesus kid don’t-" He winced, pressing a few fingers behind his ear at the renewed screaming. "Thought ye wanted t’get away from ‘er." He complained. "Aye aye children.”
A dirty blond child - who actually looked quite a lot like Cam just more blond - walked over, holding the hand of a tiny red haired girl, picking up the slightly soiled cookie and taking a bite. Scott glanced over at his child before blinking with a wince at the sheer volume the child managed to produce. Ignoring the boy in favor of his own kid for a moment, Scott held out a hand. “Jamie what are ye doing?”
"Mum says not t’waste food daddy." He mumbled through a mouth full.
Scott shook his head. “Ye don’t eat food that’s already been in someone else’s mouth; and certainly not food that’s been on th’floor, alright kiddo? Spit it out.” Jamie did as ordered and Scott folded up that and the rest of the cookie in a napkin, writing a mental note to throw it away later. Giving his kids cookies of their own he put the red head on his hip, turning back to the wailer as the boy’s mother came up from behind, paid for groceries in hand. “Oi, kiddo. Wouldya put a cork in it an’ turn around?” He waited a moment, and then held out a third cookie. “Are ye sure ye don’t want one? They’re my favorite kinda cookie.”