It's raining in London.
This is hardly news to anyone who's familiar with the city, even though Scott has visited often enough in the last eight months to know the city's international reputation is somewhat exaggerated.
Only somewhat, because he doesn't actively register the dreadful weather until Fab-1's door is yanked open and a tiny, soaking wet, and barely familiar figure throws herself onto the seat next to him in a flurry of wind and icy raindrops.
"Home, m'lady?" Parker asks from behind the wheel, his words the only dry things around for blocks.
"Home, Par— oh." Penelope blinks at him from beneath limp, wet hair, now dripping plain brown instead of its usual shimmering gold. What was once a thin, artfully draped pale pink tunic has been all but ripped away by the bad weather, barely clinging to her shoulders and probably a bit more transparent now than it was when she donned it—a fact he would normally pay more attention to, except she's radiating indignation that's only just being tempered by a rare expression of surprise.
Scott doesn't think he's ever loved her more.
"Hi," he says. It's barely necessary to lean closer as he reaches past her to close the door against the swirling rain. She's already soaked most of, if not all, the way through, but that's no reason to let more bad weather into the car than necessary.
"Scott. Hi." Her reply comes a split-second too late, and he finds himself hesitating halfway through the process of reaching for her, suddenly rethinking being here. Maybe he should have waited at the manor like Parker suggested.
How far he's fallen that his automatic assumption is she obviously doesn't want to see him.
With no further acknowledgement, she sets about opening one of Fab-1's cleverly concealed compartments—there's a new one every time Scott's in here, he swears it—and withdrawing a fluffy pink towel, which she wraps around the gathered ends of her hair. The silver bracelets on her wrist chime sharp, bright notes as she moves, the only noise aside from Fab-1's throaty purr as Parker eases them back into the clogged arteries of London's traffic.
Something about the sight of the towel tugs on Scott's mind, but before he can work out what it is, Penny takes a deep breath that goes a long way to smoothing out the terse lines of her body, even if it doesn't erase them. Then she looks at him, and for just a moment he's caught up in the crystalline blue of her eyes, so bright, even in the muted lighting.
"Another of your surprise visits?" she asks, and the hopeful note in her voice is remarkably effective at repairing his cracked confidence. Something else must be bothering her.
"Just for you." His hand finds its place in the middle of her back, like it has dozens of times before, but this time something's different. Beneath the flimsy layer of fabric, she's freezing, tiny trembles skittering under his palm, and he turns to look her over properly. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"
Her laugh is a small, brittle thing as she lowers the towel into her lap. "I'm fine, darling. Nothing a hot bath and some legwork won't fix."
"Legwork?" he repeats, lifting his hand off her so he can unbutton his own thick wool jacket, only to pause, gaze tracking between her and the damp towel resting like a blanket over her legs.
She has no coat, no umbrella, but the car has towels and dozens of other items ready to go.
Lady Penelope is prepared for everything, always, especially something as predictable as rain in London. Except today she wasn't.
"Here." He shrugs his jacket off and settles it about her shoulders, easily working around her half-hearted protests.
"What about you?" she asks, even as he wraps his arm around her shoulders and guides her into his side. The way she all but snuggles in against him is enough to keep him warm, even though hugging her is a bit like hugging a block of ice, in temperature if not in texture.
"Don't worry about me, Parker has the heat on high, and you're the one who's gone outside while forsaking a coat."
She doesn't reply immediately, and with her head tucked into his shoulder, he can't get a good look at her expression. She's thinking, though—he can feel it in the way she's gone still against him, interrupted only by the occasional shiver. Eight months ago, he might have prodded her into speaking, but he's learned lots about her since then, so he waits, ignoring the damp spots her hair is leaving on his shirt.
When she speaks, it's with a surprising amount of venom. "Some monster had the gall to steal coats and umbrellas from the restaurant's cloakroom."
He blinks down at the top of her head, taking a moment to absorb the information before he speaks. "I'm surprised you didn't find the perpetrator or the stolen goods."
He considers it a personal victory that she's comfortable enough around him to snort in a most unladylike way as she angles her head to give him a thoroughly unimpressed look. "I'm not a detective, Scott."
The statement pulls a laugh out of him, and he can't help himself—he has to bend down and press a kiss to her forehead, still cold but not quite as bad now. "Of course you aren't. You're a spy, so let me rephrase: I'm surprised you didn't find the perpetrator and have them tortured to reveal the location of the stolen goods."
One pale blonde brow arches. "Oh, no, I certainly haven't tortured anyone. Parker's handling all that, aren't you, Parker?"
"Of course, m'lady. We're on our way to... ah... deal with the situation right now."
The sharp smile Penny gives in answer shouldn't make Scott's blood race, but it does, just like every time he sees it. "Excellent, Parker."
"What about going home?" Scott asks, daydreams of sinking into a steaming bath with Penny disappearing before his eyes. Somehow he isn't as disappointed as he might have once been.
"We will. As soon as we're done with this." And with that, she cuddles up against him again, no prompting needed, and it occurs to him that it doesn't really matter where they're going, because she's here in his arms right now, and it's the best place they can be.