Page 23 of Untouchable

Christ, this really is the best brisket he ever made. Who knew the secret was falling the fuck asleep for several hours and letting the damned thing get overcooked?

Parker is still just standing there, looking in the direction of the pantry and then back at Harp.

Well. At least he hasn't thrown it away.

Is he actually... does he need permission to sit down and eat?

Harp kicks out the chair closest to him. "If you're gonna eat that, you'd better get started before the dogs realize the meat's done cooking."

* * *

Oh, fuck it,Parker thinks. It’s hardly the strangest part of his interactions with Harp so far. He’s had a hellish day, he’s starving to death, and apparently Harp has taken pity on him. So be it. He sits down, staring down at his plate, and awkwardly stabs at a small piece of the meat with his fork. He puts it in his mouth and—

“Oh my god,” Parker moans, louder than he meant to. “This is incredible.”

He doesn’t bother with good table manners, and promptly begins to shovel more of the brisket into his mouth.

"I mean, it's not... I wasn't planning on feeding anybody. It's nothing special. I'm glad you like it."

Parker bites back a smile as Harp tries the food he’s prepared out, watching from the corner of his eye. He likes this side of Harp—still gruff, but a little silly, and most of all, at ease. Parker is still mortified, of course. A client taking pity on him and feeding him during a house call is a first, and definitely a new low.

“How did you—like, seriously, how did you do this?” Parker says from around a mouthful of brisket. He looks up at Harp. “This is amazing.”

"I did it by accident," he blurts. "It's not usually this good."

“You should be a chef or something,” Parker says. “The world needs this brisket. Like, what even is this? Is brisket from a pig? Deer or something? Did you, like, hunt this yourself?”

Harp snorts and sits back. Parker tries to ignore that, when Harp laughs, Parker’s stomach does a funny little flip.

"No—I told you—beef brisket. A pig with a brisket this big would be horrifying,” he says.

“Hey, I saw this thing on TV once about a pig that was, like, a thousand pounds,” Parker says. “It could have been from that one.” Harp is smiling, and though Parker isn’t quite sure if he’s laughing with Parker or at him, Parker can’t help noticing that he does have a nice smile.

Oh, Christ, Parker, come on, he thinks.

"That's fair," Harp says shaking his head. He stares down at his plate. "I wouldn't want to meet that pig in a dark alley. I feel like it would just sense my relationship with bacon from my physique and seek revenge."

Parker’s not quite sure how to respond. It’s not the first time he’s felt like this—he can tell immediately that Harp is smart. And not just smart. Harp has the kind of intelligence that outpaces Parker by so much they might as well be speaking two different languages. He wishes he were witty enough to keep up the banter, because he likes when Harp is strange and silly. Parker is sure his ever-perfect sisters would be able to keep up a conversation with Harp, although they definitely wouldn’t get his sense of humor either.

“Um, thanks,” Parker says. He goes to stab another bite and realizes there’s none left—he’s eaten that huge portion of food almost alarmingly fast. “That—that was really good.”

* * *

Harp doesn't bother askingor waiting. He stands up with both of their plates and loads them down quickly before plunking them back down on the table.

"Go on, I'll get you a glass of water," Harp says. Something has kicked on inside of him the same way it does sometimes when he gets to pet a feral cat for the first time. He can take care of this human—at least a little bit—and that makes Harp feel worthwhile.

When he turns back to the table, Parker is eating again but watching him warily. Maybe the feral cat comparison was prescient, he realizes. It takes time to gain their trust, and why wouldn’t it take time for Parker to trust him, too?

The difference is that I care about whether or not the feral cats like me, Harp tells himself.

He fills up two big glasses with water and returns to the table.

"I didn't, uh, listen to you last time," Harp says, stabbing a piece of brisket. "You told me to drink water and I drank bourbon instead. Guess I should hydrate. You drink at all?"

Cool, let's talk about your latent alcoholism with the clean-cut kid, Harp. What the ever living fuck are you thinking at any point in your life when you open your mouth?

* * *

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