Page 83 of Untouchable

But Parker makes that sense of novelty and wonder feel suddenly valid. Here is someone who grew up with snow, practically dragging Harp out the door to go out and play in it. Harp smiles and his cheeks freeze pleasantly.

* * *

Parker zigzags backand forth across the valley, following whichever invisible pathways seem to light up in his mind. They don’t talk much, save for Harp touching Parker’s arm and pointing out more animal tracks, or Parker asking what’s beyond certain hills and ridges. Other than that, there’s simply the crunch of their boots in the snow and the huff of their breath.

And it’s utterly perfect.

The ridge that Parker has made his goal ends up being much higher and further than Parker expects, but Harp doesn’t seem to mind, so Parker presses on. And when they finally reach the top, it’s well worth the climb. The valley is spread out below them, and the only sign of civilization Parker can see is the lights of Harp’s cabin in the distance, glowing like a tiny ember.

“Wow,” Parker says softly. The rocks nearby make a convenient little overhang, where the snow isn’t nearly as deep, and Parker kicks the snow and sits down, his back against the rock, looking out at the vista. Between the borrowed snow gear and the exertion of getting here, Parker feels cozy despite the fact that he’s sitting in snow on the top of a mountain in the middle of the night.

* * *

Harp hasthe abrupt desire to sit behind Parker, gathering him up and keeping him warm. He can still remember what Parker felt like in his arms the night before when he had cried and… whatever had happened, happened.

Parker looks adorable in the various mismatched oversized layers that Harp had mummified him with—but anyone with eyes would think Parker looks adorable right now. Harp decides that the thought isn't a violation of friendship, just a gut reaction as a human to dealing with someone who's too cute to be alive. It was like cooing at a baby bunny—you couldn’t help it.

Instead, Harp sits down next to Parker, forcing his body heat onto him. He looks back at the house and gets deja vu.

"When I first moved up here after my car accident, I couldn't make it up these ridges. It used to piss me off so much that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get this high up," Harp says. "Looking back, it probably was more about the fact that I was working all day, every day, with no days off and then trying to climb mountains afterthat."

Parker leans into him slightly.

“Well,” Parker says, poking Harp’s arm through about ten layers of winter gear, “it doesn’t hurt that you have the world’s best massage therapist, right?”

Harp laughs. "You're right. It doesn't hurt. I wish I'd have gotten your help years ago, trust me."

Before he can think better of it, Harp throws an arm around Parker's shoulders and... half-hugs, half-jostles him. He doesn't know what it is about Parker that brings out the bro in him, and yet here he is, yet again.

Parker makes a little noise of fond protest, and it only stokes the fire. Harp grabs him playfully by the back of the neck, messing up his hair and knocking off his hat.

What are you doooooiiiiiing, he thinks desperately at himself.

* * *

Parker yelpsas the cold air bites at his sweat-dampened hair and snatches his hat back. He ends up stretched across Harp’s lap like some overgrown housecat, and it doesn’t even feel strange to him to wriggle around so he’s laying on his back in the packed snow, his head on Harp’s lap, looking up at the stars. He frowns up at Harp with mock indignation.

It should be strange, he thinks, to talk about his work with Harp while he’s sprawled in Harp’s lap. But it’s not. It feels the same as when he works on Mindy’s neck, or helps work the knots out of one of his co-worker’s forearms.

“Hey,” he pouts. “Don’t pick on your therapist. I might be smaller than you, but I haven’t even begun to use the worst of my techniques. Just wait until next week when I do a pectoralis minor trigger point release on you as revenge.”

* * *

Harp shivers pleasantly.He's not sure what the fuck that means, but he does understand that pectoralis means Parker is threatening to mess with his chest again.

The hard-on he'd gotten when Parker massaged his chest for the first time has gone half-forgotten until this moment, buried and shameful and awkward. Remembering it now is ten times worse, with the warm, slight weight of Parker across his lap.

How do you always manage to end up with this kid in your lap?He knows the answer of course. He's constantly inviting it.

"That's not fair. I don't know enough about it to get revenge on your feet with some secret magical pain trigger point."

“Exactly,” Parker says, flashing an extremely self-satisfied grin up at him. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll play nice. I mean, probably. Maybe. There’s at least a fifty percent chance I won’t use my powers for evil.”

* * *

He wriggles a little,getting more comfortable. A small part of his mind is yelling danger, danger, danger, because there’s absolutely nothing appropriate about sitting with his head in a client’s lap, threatening—and flirting with—him.

Parker’s sense of morality has always been fairly black and white—he’d always assumed that the ‘gray area’ people spoke of was just an excuse for bad behavior.

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