Be prepared, he knows he has that one, and he's creaking his way down to work up the leg of his suit as he flips through far too many organizational mottos in search of that one. When he gets it, he barks a laugh that stutters into coughing and glazes his mouth with the taste of iron, leaves him panting for breath as he leans back and props out his leg for her. "That's scouts, isn't it," he manages, grinning through the ragged ache of breathing, the entirety of the self-evident humor of her being a Girl Scout and his appreciation for the crack wrapped up in his question and the look that comes with it.