Page 13 of Untouchable

Harp just knows he's being labeled "difficult" right now in Parker's mind. He refuses to get mad about it. It's a hoot being lectured by a kid who looks like he belongs on an Abercrombie and Fitch shopping bag.

"I'm not really in the habit of ranking pain. It either hurts or it doesn't. What you did last week hurt, but now I know what to expect. So if we can just move forward—"

“Harp,” Parker says firmly. “If it hurts so much you can’t even continue, it’s not effective. It’ll just cause more problems in the long run. These sessions shouldn’t be painful like that.”

“Oh,” Harp says with a deep frown. He sets the little dachshund down, who promptly scurries over to Parker, throwing his little wiener body at Parker’s shins. Parker reaches down and pulls the dog into his lap.

“Okay,” Parker says after a moment. “I… I have some ideas for, um... something else we can try. Something a little gentler. Please tell me if something doesn’t feel good, though, all right?”

Harp spent the past week preparing himself for the session to be excruciating, doubling down on it so that he wouldn't fly off into a panic attack again just because he couldn't deal with how much something hurt.

He figured it was one of those things that was supposed to hurt, that he'd just been unprepared or whiny or weak or... Or whatever, he thinks, dejected. But if they can just go slower...

Now that he understands, some of the pressure in his chest is boiling off. And at least the dumb dog likes him. He's never seen Bo let somebody else pick him up like this—but then again, he's never seen someone try.

"Okay," Harp echoes after a moment. "Okay, I'll let you know."

* * *

“Really?”

The word pops out of Parker’s mouth before he can stop himself, and he immediately turns red.

“I—uh—great. I’ll get my table and we can, um, get started.”

Before he can cram his foot any further into his mouth, he sets the dog down and heads out to the car to get his table, a modified treatment plan already forming in his head. He’ll start with gentle things—myofascial release, maybe even spa type massage purely for relaxation, just to get Harp used to being touched. Parker has a theory that Harp’s reaction last week was more psychological than physical, but he’s not going to test that out on the client, of course. If he can get Harp comfortable with the idea of being worked on, though, maybe Parker can slowly build up to other types of treatment.

And if not, that’s okay, too, Parker reminds himself. You can’t fix everyone. You’re just here to help. Which usually works, except when your client jumps off the table because you hurt him so badly.

When Parker is back inside with his table, Harp gestures towards the back of the house.

"I'm sure it would be easier if you just, uh, set up in one of these rooms down here, no need, I mean, all those stairs," Harp says.

“No worries,” Parker says with a breezy smile he doesn’t quite feel. “Whatever’s easiest for you.” He starts towards the stairs—which are a pain when loaded down with more than fifty pounds of massage equipment, but he’s made up his mind to be accommodating to a fault for Harp.

* * *

Harp sighsand watches Parker mount the stairs. He should've just gone up and gotten out of his clothes. Even though he's not actively dirty, Parker's perfectly pressed uniform looks brand new and Harp is painfully aware of every hard spot of glue or paint or resin that has dried somewhere, forever, on his least-beat-up-flannel.

I refuse to be intimidated by a Ken doll, damn it.

They reconvene upstairs and Harp decides this time he won't ask any questions or even acknowledge how overwhelmingly awkward every single step of this whole process is. He steps into the bathroom to get undressed while Parker sets up.

This is fine. All of this is fine, Harp thinks, looking at his naked torso in the mirror. Just a stranger in my house. About to touch me. Completely fine.

When he steps back out, the table is set up and Parker is looking at him eagerly.

"How do you, uh, want me?"

* * *

Parker glances up,and his eyes go wide, because Harp is standing there in his underwear, his large frame filling up the doorway. Parker had been planning on stepping out of the room so Harp could get under the sheet in privacy, but apparently Parker was too slow.

And, for a moment, Parker’s mind is far from his job, because he can’t help noticing that Harp is… actually kind of… attractive, if burly, rough-hewn mountain men were your type.

And burly, rough-hewn mountain men were… exactly Parker’s type. He’d always been a sucker for a man who looked like he could throw Parker over his shoulder.

Parker glances away before Harp can see him blushing. He kicks himself mentally—it’s not the first time he’s thought a client was cute, but he knows he has to shut it down immediately. He neatly packs whatever flair of attraction he’d just felt into a box, which he seals and shoves into the far recesses of his mind.

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