Page 25 of Untouchable

Harp almost goes cross-eyed with how hard he frowns at the admission. Why the fuck does he have to open his mouth? The kid gives him two compliments in a row and Harp's ready to start unpacking his damage out loud to a stranger who just wants to do his job and get back to civilization.

“Really?” Parker asks, cocking his head. “You seem so—I dunno, I guess I thought you didn’t give a shit what anyone thought.”

"Christ, I know I'm not polished but am I really thatrude?"

“Oh—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean that—it’s like—I meant it as a good thing—” Parker pauses. “I’m always… stuck in my own head with that kind of thing, you know? So… it’s kind of… inspiring, I guess. To see someone who’s not like that.”

"I give a shit what you think," Harp blurts. "I mean, I started to the minute I realized you weren't from the city."

“Oh… Well, um, you shouldn’t worry about that,” Parker mumbles to his plate. Harp sighs and feels awkward all over again. He wishes he were better at small talk, hadn’t had to dive right into reality. So few people were comfortable discussing anything real, especially with Harp. He’d been pushing his luck already with trying to feed Parker and now things have just gotten more and more honest and strange.

Oh fucking well. You’ve been honest so far and he’s still here.

"I've been trying to drag an opinion out of you with everything I got," Harp admits, finally. "I'm not worried about it. I can shrug off assholes all day long, so I guess you were right, there. But you're in my house and you're, uh, patient. I'm interested in what you think."

* * *

Harp is staring rightat him, and his gaze is so intense Parker can’t pull away. His eyes are a deep, clear brown—Parker’s never noticed that before—and Parker falters. He can’t believe Harp wants to hear his opinion. No one wants to hear Parker’s opinion, least of all the kind of people who are as smart as Harp is. His heart keeps doing a strange swoopy thing in his chest, and he wishes it would stop, because he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t care so much that Harp genuinely wants to know what he thinks.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and when Harp just stares at him, Parker draws a deep breath.

He’s quiet for a moment because he realizes he’s not sure anyone has ever told him before that they care what he thinks. Which, when Parker examines it, is a very sad thing.

“I? think it must be really lonely here,” he says. “I? know you’re happy here but... it makes me sad to think of you up here all alone.”

He freezes, wondering if he’s crossed a line. There’s something about Harp that compels him to be honest—maybe it’s Harp’s own slightly brutal frankness. And Parker’s never been a good liar. He wears his heart on his sleeve, for better and, usually, for worse.

Harp snorts. "And it stresses me out to think of living with someone else in a tiny apartment in town," he says, smiling. "For once, I don't feel like the weirdo here."

Parker offers Harp a crooked smile—he’s glad he wasn’t offended.

“Okay,” he says. “I’d never thought of it that way. That’s a good point.”

Parker pauses for a moment, pushing a last leaf of lettuce around the plate. He wants to tell Harp what he’s been thinking about for the past two weeks, what has taken up a majority of his thoughts whenever he turns his mind towards work. He doesn’t quite trust himself to phrase it correctly, to phrase it in a way that Harp might understand.

But he figures he’ll at least try.

“Well, um, I? also think that—” Parker swallows hard. “That your hip doesn’t hurt as much as you think it does. It’s definitely messed up, but—I? think... a lot of it is in your head.”

"Christ. Um,” Harp says. "You know, there are usually some intermediate layers between when strangers won't tell me a single real opinion and when they tell me straight up that I'm crazy. But I respect your honesty."

“No—I?—“ Parker stammers. “I wasn’t—saying you’re making it up, I meant that, like—I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean it like that—what I meant was, like, it’s… psychological? Some of it? I mean, not all of it, but—”

He trails off, realizing he’s fucked up.

As usual, he thinks darkly.

* * *

Harp deflates.He'd just insisted he's not worried about what Parker thinks and now he feels like a freakshow. The big guy with the little injury that's not half as bad as it seems. What a headcase.

Still, that would be perfectly on brand, Harp thinks. Everyone is always insisting that things aren't as bad as he thinks. Just because this information originates from inside his body, why should it be any different?

Harp had almost gotten his hopes up that he and Parker could have a good conversation, but as he cleans up their dishes in silence and lets the dogs back in, he detaches from the idea.

Harp approaches the table when he’s done with the dishes and Parker gives him a concerned look that Harp detests.

“Harp, I’m sorry,” Parker says quietly. “I?—I? didn’t mean to upset you. I? didn’t mean it in a bad way. It’s—it’s a real thing, it just—we just have to approach it differently.”

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