Page 54 of Untouchable

Harp smiles and does everything in his power to make it warm instead of condescending. He's absolutely been in Parker's shoes before—accidentally taking too much of a liquor he doesn't like after it's been offered.

"I promise you don't have to drink it if you don't like the taste. It won't go to waste," Harp says. "I have vodka under the sink—or flavored stuff, if you like that better."

"No, it's great," Parker says, his voice still brittle. He takes a larger sip and contorts his face into a smile.

"Hey, easy," Harp says. "It's not a contest."

Harp knows exactly how much it burns because he's already working on his second round. He pours them both glasses of water, but Parker frowns when Harp presses the cool glass into his hand.

“I want to get the full Morton Harper experience,” Parker insists, though his eyes are nearly watering. “I can handle it.”

For a reason Harp can't pinpoint, hearing Parker say his full name causes his world to tilt on its axis momentarily. He'd been concentrated on the here and now, but hearing Morton Harper drags what feels like an alternate universe to the surface. He only ever hears that name in the context of hospitals, taxes, or family drama, and yet here it spontaneously appears, on the lips of someone he's invited into his home, someone he thinks he'd like to be friends with. Someone I'm responsible for tonight, Harp reminds himself.

"Well, if you want the full Harp, you're gonna need the House Special," Harp says.

"A cocktail?" Parker guesses with a smile.

"Not quite." Harp retrieves two cans of beer. It's the cheapest, weakest, most inoffensive beer Harp has ever come across and he unashamedly loves it as a chaser. He pops both cans and passes one to Parker, who now has three full drinks to deal with.

"Do I...?" Parker asks, pantomiming pouring the beer into the tumbler of whiskey.

"God, no," Harp says, frowning. "You drink the beer slow and you punctuate it with whiskey. Sips of whiskey—that's a nice bottle. Don't gulp it. This should be enough to get you through dinner."

"So, bourbon and..." Parker peers at the label on the can, "'Big Flats Beer' is the House Special?"

"You got it," Harp says. He plunks their open beer cans together and takes a gulp of the familiar, bland beer.

He neglects to tell Parker that he'd usually be drinking them in the opposite order—a generous shot of bourbon and most of a can of beer—and that that would not be anywhere near enough to get him through a normal night of cooking. But Harp suspects the full Morton Harper experience would probably send Parker to the hospital.

Harp watches him closely as Parker takes a cautious sip. It’s about as watery as beers get, which is probably about what Parker’s used to.

“Better?” Harp asks, raising an eyebrow.

* * *

“I can work with this,”Parker says. They share a grin for a moment, and Parker understands: Harp is giving Parker a graceful way out of struggling to sip at a glass of whiskey all night, is giving him kindness without pity. Parker knows, Harp knows Parker knows, and it’s an unspoken secret they’re building together.

Parker takes another sip of his beer. He already feels warmer, looser, but he drinks so infrequently he can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or simply the suggestion of alcohol.

He curls up on the window seat again with his water, his bourbon, and his beer. The moment—sitting here, the recessed lights above gleaming on the polished wood of the counters and floors, Harp focused on his cooking and Parker simply observing—is cozy and strangely comfortable, as if this is simply what their life is.

Parker flushes as he finds his mind wandering down this path. It’s dangerous to let himself imagine it, but, at the same time, he can’t help it. What a lovely thing it would be, he idly thinks, if this were his life—warm meals on cold evenings, the comforting sound of Petunia snoring across the room, and a night spent wrapped up in Harp’s arms.

Parker scolds himself for thinking this, but he knows it’s far too late. Parker knows what he’s doing as he pushes the pace of his own drinking. He feels like he’s watching a cat who makes eye contact as it reaches out to push a glass off the table. Some part of Parker is looking to get drunk so he can shift the blame on whatever happens tonight—whatever he does to embarrass himself—from himself to alcohol lowered inhibitions. He’s a little ashamed, but he also can’t help himself.

* * *

Harp can feelhimself clamming up as he nurses his own House Special à la Parker.

He's just waiting, he realizes, for Parker to get tired of him. It's only a matter of time before Parker realizes how boring it is on Storm Mountain.

And that's fine. Not everyone is entertained by silence and snowfall and the pat of chicken in flour. Harp made his peace with that years ago.

Still, an uneasy feeling settles in his chest alongside the happy companionship he feels with Parker sitting close by.

* * *

Parker’s sittingon the little windowsill, watching Harp cook. Harp’s brow is furrowed—he’s clearly concentrating deeply—and Parker’s doing his best not to disturb Harp’s rhythm. Instead, he focuses on his senses—the smell of chicken and vegetables simmering, the steady thump as Harp dices something, the gleam of the knife in the low light.

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