Page 55 of Untouchable

And Harp’s right—this is good whiskey, if you’re not trying to chug it. Parker balances sips of beer with sips of whiskey and manages to make his way through a third of his glass without too much suffering. He’s proud of himself for not talking, for staying still. Parker is used to living life at full speed, always careening from one thing to the next, but the pace of life is different up here. Again he wonders how he could have ever thought Harp’s life was cold and lonely and empty up here.

He’s doing a good job of keeping quiet, he thinks, and he feels warm and relaxed, nestled into a corner of Harp’s kitchen. It’s only when he stands up to use the bathroom that the full force of the alcohol hits him.

Parker makes it to the bathroom in a relatively straight line, and he hopes Harp didn’t notice. When he’s washing his hands, he stares at himself in the mirror.

Don’t get any ideas, Parker,he tells himself. So what if you’re snowed in with Harp and it’s kind of the most romantic thing in the world? So what if he told you he’s gay? So what if he cooked you Grandma Harper’s secret recipe? So what if he’s probably the most interesting person you’ve met in your entire life? So what if he looks like he could pick you up and pin you against the wall while he—

Parker stops himself short as a blush blooms dark on his cheeks. That’s the last thing he needs to be thinking about.

Don’t go there, Parker. Don’t think about how it would feel if his arm was around your shoulders as you sit on the couch. Don’t think about how his kisses are probably long and deep and gentle. And definitely don’t think about the size of his dick—

He scrubs a hand over his face.

Goddamnit, Parker.

* * *

Everything comes together quickerwhen you're hungry and drinking, Harp realizes. Parker excuses himself to the bathroom and Harp is ready to plate up their meal.

He eyes the glass of bourbon Parker left behind. Parker is already a third of the way through it without anything in his stomach.

Without anything other than beer,Harp reminds himself. What a genius idea that had been.

There's something in Harp like a callous that wants to make him cross his arms and say, "Oh well. If the kid wants to spend the night puking, that's on him."

But it feels just like that—a callous. Not something that's living in him anymore. Something that's supposed to protect him from how much he wants to protect Parker.

Harp frowns and tells himself that the big gulp he takes of Parker's whiskey is because he doesn't want to waste so much of his best stuff on a guest, not because he's afraid of Parker making himself sick.

Harp has two plates in his hands and he turns cautiously, slowly, just in case someone is behind him. I'm already adjusting to having Parker around, he realizes.

The man in question appears in the doorway. Harp can't really see the effect of the alcohol on him but he does seem... relaxed. And smiley.

"Ready to eat?"

* * *

“Fuck yeah,”Parker says. The food smells amazing and though Parker’s too tipsy right now to feel hungry, he remembers that the last thing he ate was a granola bar on his way up the mountain, hours and hours ago.

You’re just full of great ideas, Parker.

He slides into the little booth of the table as Harp sets the meal down in front of him and inhales a deep breath.

“God, this looks amazing,” he says. Harp brings over their glasses of whiskey and that’s when Parker realizes his is more than half empty.

Oops. He should probably be pacing himself, but right now he feels energetic and excited and on top of the world.

* * *

Harp beginsto feel the additional gulp of whiskey almost immediately and curses himself for taking it.

Drains do exist, you utter human garbage disposal…

As he waits for Parker to take his first bite, Harp realizes that he's committed a cardinal cooking sin: he hasn't tasted his own food before he served it. He's made the meal so many times that it didn't even occur to him to check before he sat down to eat. But then again, in times of stress, Harp knows he gets absent-minded.

He'll put bread dough in an oven that's off and wait half an hour before noticing, or accidentally thaw three times as much meat as he needs. Or fall asleep all day in the middle of cooking a brisket, he reminds himself.

It would stand to reason, then, that having a guest would be an even better than usual reason to fuck up his own recipe.

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