A Helping Hand
by Whiscash
pairing: Hank Anderson/Connor
notes: so...there's this pic of a t-shirt that says, quite beautifully, "nothing says 'I love you' like fisting", which someone posted in a writing prompts group and whoops. I swear one day I will write something non-ridiculous for these two, but it is not this day c':
Rated purely for discussion(?) of very nsfw things, although nothing Lewd actually happens. enjoy, I guess!
"I bought everything we need that should provide the recommended amount of calories and nutrients for both of you!" Connor called, letting himself in with three bags of groceries swinging from his arm. Sumo leapt up to greet him as he entered, snuffling at the bags before attacking Connor's face with sloppy, affectionate licks; he chuckled, petting the dog with his free hand.
Hank was a little less enthusiastic, acknowledging him with a grunt without looking up from the TV. He'd told Connor not to bother going out, he'd get himself something later, but that had a high probability of being takeout for the third time that week. Besides, even though it wasn't a skill he was programmed with, Connor had discovered he liked cooking – there was something satisfying in, seeing Hank enjoy something he'd made. Or at least, grudgingly admit that it "wasn't half bad".
"And I got those donuts you like."
"Yeah?" That, as predicted, got Hank's attention, turning his head to glance back over the couch. Connor smiled as he caught his eye, recalling a slogan he'd seen written on a shirt at the store. They didn't usually greet each other like this, but this seemed like an appropriate occasion to try it out, so he held out his hand.
"Fist me!"
Hank choked on his beer, so suddenly and violently Connor was at his side in seconds, vigorously thumping him on the back until he recovered from his coughing fit. Thankfully he didn't detect any damage, despite Hank's remaining unusually red in the face.
"What did you say?!"
"Fist me – isn't that one of the ways humans express approval?" Hank just continued to stare at him, apparently unable to form words. Then again, Connor considered, he likely wasn't the shirt's target demographic, so he made a fist with both hands and bumped them together to demonstrate. "Like this?"
"Oh – Jesus, you mean..." The unprecedented shock displayed across Hank's features gave way to relief as he dragged one hand across his face with an unidentifiable strangled sound, not quite a laugh nor a groan. "We call that a fist bump, Connor. Fist bump ."
Connor inclined his head; the difference seemed minuscule, but he didn't anticipate this much of a reaction. He ran a brief search for the definitions, and...
...Oh.
That was enlightening.
"There's a difference," he noted, tone completely neutral.
Hank snorted, seemingly becoming very interested in studying his beer can before muttering something under his breath that might have been inaudible to a human, but Connor discerned as "no fuckin' shit". The novelty of seeing him visibly flustered proved unexpectedly endearing, and Connor felt a smile tug at his lips.
"The first kind I suggested – if that's something you're interested in, there are ways –"
"How about we just put these away," Hank interrupted, moving from the couch with uncharacteristic urgency and grabbing the grocery bags, "while I figure out how much more alcohol I need to forget this conversation ever happened."
"Are you sure you're okay, Lieutenant? I'm sensing an elevated heart rate and some uneven temperature distribution…"
The tomato that narrowly missed Connor's left ear was a little unnecessary, he thought, but amusing nonetheless.
He made a note to do the shopping more often.