Page 22 of Untouchable

He gestures vaguely. "You fuck up until you don't fuck up anymore. The same way anyone learns anything. You don't have to waste your time in a class to learn something."

“Oh,” Parker says. He sits for a moment, mulling this over. The few times he’s tried to use recipes, it had ended up with him inadvertently doubling some ingredients and halving others, and the results were pretty ghastly. “I guess… I guess I learn better watching someone do stuff.”

It’s why he’s always liked sports, and had liked his massage therapy program: there was always someone by his side, coaching him through it, able to demonstrate something if he didn’t understand at first. He can’t fathom the idea of simply sitting down with a book, then standing up with the ability to cook something that smells thisdelicious.

"Yeah, you and me both," Harp says, laughing. "I get down a YouTube cooking show hole and before I know, I'm spatchcocking a whole chicken at 2 a.m. just because they made it look so easy. I didn't used to have this problem when all I had were cookbooks."

“You what a chicken?” Parker says, raising his eyebrow, and immediately regrets it. His stomach grumbles, and Parker is mortified. He hopes Harp didn’t hear.

* * *

"Well kid,when two consenting chickens love each other very much..." Harp waits for a reaction from Parker and regrets even attempting to make a joke. Parker is looking down at his lap. Harp frowns and goes back to his plating. Normally he’d just abandon ship on the joke, but he doesn’t want to risk being rude or making Parker feel stupid, if that was a real question.

"Spatchcock. It's a cooking method. You, uh, break the chicken down, and then you weight it—uh—with... bricks... Goddamn it," Harp says, pressing his hands on the counter and looking over his shoulder at Parker. "How do you talk while you do things? It's not natural."

Parker looks down at his hands for a moment, confused.

“I mean, I’m just sitting here, so—”

Harp snorts. "I mean the last appointment when you delivered the spirited monolog about the positive impact of sports on a growing young man's psyche."

When Parker doesn't immediately respond, Harp's heart falls. Of course Parker doesn't remember every appointment. He's being such an asshole.

* * *

Parker is veryglad Harp’s not looking at him, so he misses that Parker is blushing hard.

“I didn’t realize you were listening,” he admits. “Like I said, I… thought you were asleep.”

The blushing, being more tongue-tied than usual—Parker realizes, like a sharp slap to the face, that this is exactly how he behaves when he has a crush on someone. It’s alarming, too, because that is not a line he has ever—or would ever—cross with a client, but he thinks that, probably because of the interruption to his routine, and because he hasn’t set his table up yet, his brain never clicked over into “working” mode.

And now he’s bright red and shy, tripping over his words as he sneaks glances at Harp’s muscular forearms, watches the strange grace with which Harp moves.

Oh, you really fucked up this time, Parker.

It seems like Harp is finished with the brisket, though, so he stands up, looking down at the floor and waiting for Harp’s cue.

* * *

"Here,"Harp says. He pushes a plate into Parker's hands, blushing hard and feeling like a moron. "Come on."

Parker doesn't immediately take the plate but he instinctively puts his hands up and Harp practically drops it between them. Of course he doesn’t want your weird food.

Harp leads them to the table, feeling like an idiot, looking down at his plate of lunch or dinner or whatever intermediate meal this is supposed to be, along with the improvised salad in a bowl balanced on the edge.

Parker holds an identical plate. Harp knows this is probably insane. He should've asked first.

You're a jerk, what else is new. It's just been so long since anybody has told you you're a good cook, you can't resist it. Kid's probably not even hungry and you're forcing food on him.

Harp slides into the booth and Park stands behind a chair, goldfishing again.

"You don't have to eat it."

“I—I—”

Parker’s stomach makes an audible rumbling noise and Harp wonders if he’s really so nauseated by the idea of eating Harp’s food that he’s going to lose his lunch.

"Trash is behind the screen door in the pantry," Harp says, staring down at his plate as he begins to dig in. No skin off his back if the kid doesn't want to eat. He shouldn't have offered. Oh well.

---