Chapter Text
Lash settled into Bebop’s embrace, nothing but the gentle purring of Bebop’s engine and his soft breathing filling the room. It was a quiet, peaceful night, nothing he wasn’t used to anymore, though it’s such a sudden shift from the life he lived before.
He didn’t like recognizing his past much, preferring to leave what’s done as done–but the night feels too quiet: Bebop was dead silent, opening the dam for his thoughts to flood in. A majority of his life was on the streets or just barely passing by, spending his childhood fist-fighting other kids for scraps on the street to a below-minimum wage dockworker. There was nobody to rely on, only his stubbornness and sheer willpower pushing him through.
Stumbling across the Bear Pit might’ve been the best accident of his life, for the first time, he could spend his prize money on an (admittedly shitty) apartment, buy actual food, and listen to crowds cheer his name. It was perfect, everything he ever wanted as a kid, but a piece of the puzzle was still missing.
When he stumbled back into his apartment at dead hours of the night, there was nobody to greet him at the door, nobody to announce they’ve made him dinner, nobody to tell him to be proud of his success. He had nothing but himself and a pool of empty riches.
Then he met Bebop, the embodiment of everything he wishes he was. Sure, the golem might’ve not been swimming in cash like he was, but he had someone waiting at home for him, someone to provide and cook for, someone who’d tell him what he’s doing is enough. That should’ve been him–it should’ve been Lash with a decent life, not him, and that infuriated him to high hell. The public’s got them all wrong: Lash couldn’t give a shit Bebop screwing over his perfect track record: it’s how his lifelong dream beat him down and humiliated him, the XXX-1 a reminder of an unattainable life, and his empty destiny.
Yet, now he lays with said reminder, who so selflessly cares for him and gives him everything he could ever want. He doesn’t have to worry about cooking for himself or vacuuming anything, he has Bebop to do that for him. With an actual house and a kid (or two?), they could be the perfect nuclear family, providing a hearth and a sanctuary for a kid in Lash’s former position.
Bebop is perfect, somehow even more perfect than he is. Maybe it’s because it’s been ages since Lash felt genuine warmth from somebody, but Bebop cares for him in ways far beyond simple acts of service–and from a machine, of all things. It’s baffling to him that someone lacking human morals and ethics has been the only person to recognize his faults behind his facade of grandeur and actually sympathize with him. He wouldn’t have it any other way; Bebop was his motivation to recognize his imperfections and iron them out, and he couldn’t be more grateful.
Perfect, perfect, perfect: his life’s perfect, his partner’s perfect, he’s perfect–what’s not to like? He has everything he could have ever asked for, and he didn’t even need a patron’s blessing, just dumb luck.