So maybe they have blondes in common.
How weird is that, though, having something in common with Scott.
The two key pieces of evidence in favour of that conclusion are currently getting chummy over by the bar; leaning two blonde heads together in that immediately intimate, comfortable, terrifying way that women have, particularly when discussing their respective dates.
Penelope's handily provided the party and their invitations to it , a gorgeously opulent affair aboard someone's yacht. The evening's been spent cruising lazily off the coast of Croatia, music and food and booze and beautiful, beautiful people.
It takes a hell of a crowd to make Lady Penelope look plain, but then, maybe that's what sets her apart. She's opted for the little black dress; dark like a hole's been cut out of the universe, just for her to step inside and wriggle those hips into, the silver buttons up the back hugging the curve of her spine like the handle of the big dipper. The only thing better than looking at Penelope from the back is getting to watch her turn around.
If they've got blondes in common, he and Scott, they definitely don't have it in common that blondes belong in a man's life to be stared at appreciatively from across a dance floor. Scott snaps his fingers in his little brother's eyeline, clears his throat. "—I was saying, Gordon, I was talking to the captain, and—"
The captain's dress probably came off a rack, and this is the sort of crowd that would notice. This is also the sort of crowd that wouldn't dare comment, not with the Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward laughing in Captain Jane Carter's ear, and a hand on the wrist of her new best friend, delicate and complimentary and daring anyone to so much as mention the word "bargain". "What, your Captain? Chrissakes, Scott, Pen didn't wrangle this thing together for you to call your plus-one 'Captain'. Call her Jane."
In a reversal of roles, Scott's in worsted grey sharkskin and Gordon's the one in deep dark blue. Scott's shirt is pale pink, Gordon's tie is an exercise in deception–plain black at a distance, but with its floral pattern picked out in tiny sparkles of pinpoint swarovski crystal. This is what happens when your girlfriend catches you hard at work on a vintage denim jacket with your grandmother's antique Bedazzler.
Scott rolls his eyes and gives his brother that down-the-nose look of long-suffering tolerance. "No, the Captain-Captain. The boat captain."
"Oh. Yeah?"
They're out on one of the upper decks, with the light off the shore behind them, and the light radiating off the yacht seeming to outshine the whole sky overhead. Scott's got both hands resting back on the railing behind him, Gordon's got more of a casual lean going, angled to best appreciate the view of the bar, and not to cover for just how short he is next to his brother. Scott's still making small talk, and Gordon's definitely not listening as Penelope drops a cocktail napkin and leans down to pick it up. "—was saying this thing cost almost twenty billion dollars to build. Three helicopters, a submarine, pools forward and aft. Twenty billion. That's…what, that's like a year's worth of flight hours in One. That's insane. On a pleasure craft."
"Pleasure," Gordon echoes, crafting the illusion of attention, though he needs to bite his lip and introduce a little pain into the equation, when it comes to the way Penelope's shoulders dip down beneath the straps of that goddamn slice of vintage Dior.
"I just, sometimes I think, hey—maybe what we do with our money isn't actually that crazy, y'know? Gordon?"
Gordon hasn't been listening, so Gordon doesn't know.
But, when in doubt, and especially around Scott—blind, wholehearted agreement. "Absolutely. One hundred percent insane. Bonkers. Fucking nutso. Lock 'im up, throw away the key. Crazy. Yup. I know. 'sides, though, that submarine is not a submarine-submarine, it is a little wind-up bath toy that got blown all outta proportion. Puttputtputtputtputt." Sound effects are convincing. "Yeah. I've already seen the SS-Ha Ha Funny Joke."
The worst thing about having big brothers is having a lot of them. The worst thing about the biggest one is that he has no compunction about seizing hold of a guy's ear and just twisting like an utter bastard and, "—what the god! What! Ow! Why!"
"We're having a brotherly, heart-to-heart conversation," Scott informs him, in his Thunderbird-1 voice. "I'm attempting to sort of lead in to asking you your advice about something sort of personal and kind of sensitive, and I don't actually get the feeling you're listening."
Gordon's clamped a hand over his ear and retreated out of grabbing range, glaring and lecturing, "Rule one of the heart-to-heart, no yanking on Gordon's ears! Rule two, deeply personal conversations are to take place in the unlikely silences that happen after periods of intense social engagement! Both parties must be emotionally exhausted in order to engage in maximum vulnerability! Rule three—I forget! But I mean, what the hell, Scooter, this is basic groundwork, relationship-wise. You're not that rusty."
Scott's answering sigh is heavy, exasperated and gets cut off by an irritated click of his teeth. "You're drunk," he decides, and maybe comes to the conclusion that a serious conversation with Gordon about anything wouldn't actually be all that beneficial anyway.
"There's rule three. And I'm tipsy, let's not be insulting."
"Whatever. Forget it. Jesus, here I thought that I could count on Penelope's taste to somehow account for something other than your perpetual refusal to take anything seriously. Because fuck the fact that I might have an actual problem and want your stupid advice."
Gordon blinks at him. "Aw, dude. Shit. Sorry."
"Forget it."
Well, no, not happening. Gordon approaches again, boosts himself up to sit on the railing and elbow his brother. "Hey. Hey, man, c'mon. Spill, Scotty, what's up? All ears."
Scott sulks like a champion, but in his defense, never for long. Eventually he shrugs, and Gordon realizes abruptly that despite having a carefully chosen view of the blonde he's got for his plus-one, Scott's been looking everywhere but in her direction. His shoulders drop a little more heavily than they should. "I don't know. Captain. My Captain. Jane. What do you think of her?"
Before Gordon can even start to reassure his big brother that Jane is absolutely, one hundred percent super great and amazing, Scott sighs again and continues, "—because I think she might kind of hate this, and I think this is all a really big mistake."