Her Ladyship doesn't scream.
Just, as a general rule, you couldn't ruffle the Lady Penelope's feathers if you hit her with a brick. Only, you'd be unlikely to have the chance to hit her with a brick to begin with, trained as she is in a variety of unarmed modes of combat. More than likely, her ladyship would make you regret bringing a brick to a fist fight in the first place.
Probably by taking the brick off you, dropping it into her handbag, and cheerfully beating you into insensibility with it.
Parker's quite proud of the hand he's had in her ladyship's general air of unrufflability, but when there's a panicked, frightened shriek from the second floor, he's still on his feet, out of the parlor, and up the stairs faster than would be expected for a man of his age.
Because her ladyship doesn't scream.
—but there's no one else upstairs who could possibly be responsible for the sound of pure pain and terror, the like of which Parker hasn't heard since he'd been on the ground during the worst days of the war.
The household's present company considered, there's a small, rather prudish part of Parker that's not exactly eager to burst through her ladyship's bedroom door and find out just what on earth the screaming is about—but the greater part of him knows that there must be something terribly wrong, and never mind what goes on behind closed doors in m'lady's private chambers, he'd batter down the gates of hell if Penelope were in need on the other side of them.
She's not in the bedroom, but the bathroom doors have been flung open, and there's a flood of water gleaming on the tiled marble floor, reflecting back all the light in the room as he reaches the threshold and peers in.
Bloody black buggerin' hell.
Or, well, bloody hell, at the very least. And blue, more probably, rather than black.
Earlier in the year, making the usual friendly calls around to members of his old unit, Parker had been shocked to learn that his old sergeant had slipped in the shower and broken his hip. The quintessential old-man-injury had befallen a man not five years Parker's senior, and though Parker can still sprint up a flight of stairs at utmost need, the news had still struck a bit of a sour chord, and had him rather sullenly order an extra round or two at the pub that night.
Perhaps there's something like comfort to be taken in the notion that the exact same mishap can befall a former Olympian, less than half Parker's age and in the best shape of his life, but Parker can't find the heart to look for it. Especially as the Lady Penelope is quite fond of this particular former Olympian, and the poor bastard's currently limp as a dead kitten, naked and shivering in her ladyship's arms. He's bleeding all over her dress where his forehead rests against her shoulder, red painting over the places where he's not gone pale and blue from cold.
Parker has a whole library of uncharitable remarks, ready and waiting to be made at Gordon Tracy's expense, with regards to his height, his blondness, his general level of intelligence, his bloody great cheek, and even, rather hypocritically, the fact that the boy's got a crookedy damn nose. It's part of his job, Parker's long decided, to keep her ladyship's suitors firmly on the backfoot, and his insistent presence as a lurking force of disdain and barely-below-the-surface hostility generally helps to weed out the worst of the bastards who hang around Lady Penelope with less than noble intentions.
There's nothing like actual animosity, though, and especially not where Gordon's considered. The lad's always given just as good as he gets, in any case, and Parker counts that broadly in his favour.
And so there's nothing but genuine concern, nothing but urgency in the way he crosses the room, takes in the pair of them at a glance, and murmurs, "Good 'eavens, m'lady, but he doesn't 'alf bloody well step in it when he goes and does so, eh?"
"Oh, Parker—" Penelope's soaked to the skin, shivering herself, and plainly, obviously distressed. Her blue eyes have that rare glimmer of tears and when she looks up at her bodyguard and partner, it's with such an unlikely air of helplessness that his heart just about breaks.
So Parker takes charge. The best thing to do with her ladyship in these vanishingly infrequent instances of weakness is to give her a clear and useful directive and to get her out of the way. "There now, m'lady, I've got 'im. We'll get this lot sorted out, and lucky he's got such a thick skull on 'im, eh? Go and fetch the first aid kit now, there's a good lass. Stop clinging like a limpet, my girl, doin' no one any kind of good."
When Parker stops talking like she's her ladyship and starts talking like she's the child he's known from girlhood, that's when one can tell she's afraid. Still, Penelope nods and shifts slightly, permits Parker to reach down and get ahold of Gordon, to pull him upright and start to get him sorted out.
They're more or less of a size, Gordon and Parker, and if the younger of the pair is possessed of a solid base of the lean, lithe muscularity of youth, then Parker's at least his equal in a spry, wiry bedrock of the colloquial old man strength. It's not a question of much exertion to haul Gordon Tracy off the floor, even if he is shivering almost too badly to hold steady and only semi-conscious, and mostly represents a hundred and sixty odd pounds of dead-weight. There's a chaise in the corner of the room opposite the shower, and it's as good a place as any to sit him down, such as to get a proper look at the boy. There's a towel across the backrest, and Parker prudently drops this across Gordon's lap, while his other hand stays steady on the lad's shoulder, props him upright even as he starts to come back around. Blood from where he's split the skin at his temple is still slick and sticky down the side of his face, diluted by the water that still clings to his skin.
Pathetic bloody creature. Parker's of the opinion, and not incorrectly, that the Tracys as a collective are astonishingly durable. When dropped, they tend to bounce. But it's clear that Gordon was in a right state to begin with, and is that much worse off now. At his elbow, Lady Penelope makes the sort of tiny, barely there little whimper of pain and fear and empathy, the sort that betrays her when she's really and truly rattled. And likely to be dreadfully underfoot and bothersome and just generally in the way.
She's one of the most competent people one could hope for, if one needs a right blaggard or a dastardly villain beaten about the head with a brick stuffed in a handbag. As international agents go, she's as cool and calm and confident as they come. Parker's helped her chase Luddite terrorists through London, taught her to crack a safe, and had her voice in his ear, sure and determined, telling him to unload missiles in the direction of a hostile, patched together hulk of a submarine, a dozen times the size of FAB1.
But when the people nearest and dearest to her come to harm, Penelope goes a little bit all to pieces.
"First aid kit, please, m'lady," Parker says again, a bit more firmly this time, because her ladyship does tend to dither when she's been badly frightened. He gentles his tone, alternating out of sternness as though he's coaxing a small and timorous beastie into action. "Go right on, and then get yourself out of that soppin' wet lot. Doin' no one any good drippin' all over the carpet, catch your bloomin' death. H'and best you go turn down the blankets in one of the spare rooms, it's a right proper mess in yours. Go on now, m'lady, get off with you. We'll be right through."
"Oh, but—"
"M'lady."
It's to her credit that she doesn't need to be told a third time, though Parker's fairly sure she'll be back sooner than he wants her.
Still. Matter at hand. Parker squares his palm against Gordon's shoulder and catches the lad's jaw with his other hand, tilts his head up to get a better look at him. Glassy brown eyes blink open but don't quite focus, and Parker tuts disapprovingly at the place where his forehead's going to bruise, around the edges of a gash in the skin. Poor bastard.
"Well now," he comments with a sigh, "you do love to make a bleedin' great mess of things whenever you turn up, Master Gordon, but I think this time around just h'about tears it. Gone and made 'er ladyship cry, you poor bloody fool. Better get you sorted out."