#claptrap x reader

He looked left. Right. Into the void that was his entire existence. Left again.

“This is FINE! This is STRATEGIC! You're like a—a tactical support unit! Providing moral support from a safe distance! She ASKED you to stay here, and you're RESPECTING HER BOUNDARIES! You're doing GREAT! She's gonna be so IMPRESSED by your ability to follow basic instructions! CHICKS LOVE THAT! Look at you, being emotionally mature and NOT getting in the way—"

A gunshot split the air.

His optic jerked forward.

And there you were.

Oh.

Oh #$%@.

His cooling fans kicked into overdrive with a mechanical whirr that was definitely audible to anyone within a ten-foot radius. Possibly fifteen. Maybe twenty if the wind was right.

You were in the middle of the bandit camp—well, former bandit camp, because you were systematically turning it into a corpse camp—moving like violence had been choreographed specifically for you. A psycho rushed you from the left—you sidestepped, brought your shotgun up in one fluid motion, and removed his kneecap like you had done this roughly a thousand times before (you definitely had, the robot had it documented). He went down screaming. You followed up with a boot to his face that made a sound Claptrap was pretty sure would haunt his audio files forever.

In a good way though.

Very, very good way.

A full-body shudder ran through his chassis.

“Oh WOW,” he whispered to the corpse. “You seeing this? ARE YOU SEEING THIS?!”

The dead man said nothing. One eye socket stared blankly at the sky. 

“Because I'M seeing this! And let me tell you, Steve—can I call you Steve? I'm calling you Steve—THIS IS VERY HARD TO PROCESS RIGHT NOW!” His optic tracked your movement as he shifted closer to his unwilling conversation partner. “And I don't mean EMOTIONALLY hard, Steve! I mean if I had the biological components for it, I would be sporting THE MOST IMPRESSIVE—"

You spun. Dropped low. A bullet whizzed over your head—would have been a headshot if you had been standing. Instead, you rose smoothly, slinging the shotgun across your back in one fluid motion and drawing your assault rifle in the next. Already tracking the shooter. Finger on the trigger. Three-round burst. Center mass.

The bandit folded.

You blew a strand of hair out of your face.

Didn't even blink.

Claptrap's optic lens nearly fogged.

“—ERIDIUM-GRADE BONER RIGHT NOW! LIKE, WE'RE TALKING SLAG-INFUSED! CORROSIVE-ENHANCED! THE KIND THAT COULD MINE THROUGH SOLID ROCK AND POSSIBLY VIOLATE SEVERAL HYPERION SAFETY REGULATIONS!”

The corpse somehow looked more mortified than when it died.

“AND THE SIZE, STEVE! OH, THE SIZE! WE'RE NOT TALKING AVERAGE HERE! WE'RE TALKING LEGENDARY-TIER PROPORTIONS! ORANGE-RARITY WANG WITH FLAVOR TEXT! ‘CLAPTRAP'S PRIDE AND JOY (LITERALLY)!’ NO WAIT— ‘HANDLE WITH CARE (AND BOTH HANDS)!’ OR—OR ‘SHOOTS BLANKS BUT MAKES UP FOR IT IN VOLUME!’ THE KIND OF SIZE THAT COMES WITH ITS OWN QUEST MARKER! I'D NEED A SEPARATE INVENTORY SLOT JUST TO CARRY IT AROUND!”

You reloaded. Smooth. Didn't break stride.

Steve's mouth hung open a little wider.

“TWELVE INCHES MINIMUM! MAYBE FOURTEEN IF WE'RE BEING GENEROUS! FIFTEEN IF I'M REALLY FEELING CONFIDENT ABOUT MY THEORETICAL ANATOMY! AND THE GIRTH? SHE'D NEVER HAVE TO WONDER IF I WAS ENOUGH BECAUSE I'D BE—” He gestured wildly with both clamps. “—SO MUCH! THE KIND THAT MAKES HER GO—” His voice shifted, suddenly high-pitched, attempting a feminine tone. “—‘OH, CLAPTRAP, I'M GONNA NEED A MINUTE TO RECOVER!’ AND I'D SAY—” His tone immediately dropped back down. Attempting suave. Failing spectacularly. “‘TAKE YOUR TIME, BABY, I'M A GIVER!’”

Another enemy rushed past. You clotheslined him. He went down like a sack of wet cement.

The corpse's head lolled to the side. Away from the robot.

“AND IT WOULDN'T JUST BE BIG, STEVE! IT'D BE AESTHETICALLY PLEASING! SLEEK! AERODYNAMIC! MAYBE WITH SOME RACING STRIPES! BLUE LED ACCENTS! SHE'D LOOK AT IT AND GO ‘WOW, CLAPTRAP, THAT'S THE MOST VISUALLY APPEALING ROBOTIC PHALLUS I'VE EVER SEEN!’ AND I'D SAY ‘THANK YOU, I HAD IT CUSTOM DESIGNED BY THE BEST ENGINEERS ON PANDORA!’ EXCEPT I DIDN'T BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE ONE BUT IF I DID—”

Steve's jaw fell off.

Like, literally fell off. Dropped right off his skull.

Hit the dust with a quiet thunk.

Claptrap didn't notice. His optic was locked onto you—absolutely, completely, irrevocably fixated. Because you had just grabbed a bandit by his vest, headbutted him hard enough that the crack echoed across the wasteland, and then used his collapsing body as a step-stool to vault over a barricade.

A tiny puff of smoke erupted from somewhere in his chassis.

Then another.

Poof.

       Poof.

His cooling system was losing its goddamn mind.

“—THAT'S IT! THAT'S THE WOMAN I'M GONNA MARRY!” he shrieked at Steve's jawless corpse. “WE'RE GONNA HAVE A BEAUTIFUL LIFE TOGETHER! I'LL PROPOSE! SHE'LL SAY YES—OR MAYBE NO—PROBABLY NO—DEFINITELY NO—BUT THEN I'LL ASK AGAIN AND SHE'LL FEEL BAD AND SAY YES OUT OF PITY! AND WE'LL HAVE A TINY CEREMONY! JUST US, THE WASTELAND, AND WHATEVER SKAGS WANDER BY! I'LL WEAR A BOWTIE! SHE'LL WEAR A DRESS! OR PANTS! SHE LOOKS GREAT IN PANTS! HAVE YOU SEEN HER IN PANTS?! OF COURSE YOU HAVEN'T, YOU'RE DEAD!”

You kicked a charging psycho in the balls.

He doubled over, hands clutching his groin.

You shot him in the face. Didn't even pause. Expression blank as concrete.

“THAT'S MY GIRL! THAT'S! MY! GIRL! DID YOU SEE THAT, STEVE?! THAT'S THE FUTURE MOTHER OF MY ROBOT BABIES RIGHT THERE! WE'RE GONNA HAVE A HOUSE! A WHITE PICKET FENCE! MAYBE A DOG! OR A SKAG! I'LL COMPROMISE! AND EVERY MORNING I'LL MAKE HER BREAKFAST—WELL, I CAN'T COOK, BUT I'LL TRY! I'LL BURN THINGS! LOVINGLY! AND SHE'LL SMILE AT ME AND SAY ‘CLAPTRAP, YOU'RE TRYING YOUR BEST AND THAT'S WHAT MATTERS!’ AND I'LL SAY—”

He paused.

Steam puffed.

His clamps fidgeted. Opened. Closed. Opened again.

. . .Like he was trying to hold onto something that wasn't there.

“—And I'll say—” His lens dimmed. “And I'll... I'll say…”

He tracked your movement across the battlefield—ducking, weaving, firing. Being amazing. Being you. Just like any other day. A spray of blood misted the air as another bandit went down. You wiped it off your cheek with the back of your hand. Didn't even slow down.

Beautiful. Deadly. Perfect.

A woman who could have anyone.

His arms sagged, hanging a little lower at his sides.

“—AND THEN SHE'LL LEAVE ME!” The volume returned. Loud. Cheerful. Wrong. “BECAUSE OF COURSE SHE WILL! WHY WOULDN'T SHE?! LOOK AT HER! SHE'S AMAZING! AND I'M—I'M A DEFECTIVE STEWARD BOT WHO CAN'T EVEN OPEN DOORS HALF THE TIME! SHE'LL WAKE UP ONE DAY AND REALIZE SHE COULD BE WITH LITERALLY ANYONE ELSE! SOMEONE WITH FINGERS! SOMEONE WHO CAN CLIMB STAIRS! SOMEONE WHO DOESN'T HAVE A WHEEL THAT SQUEAKS LIKE A DYING SKAG!”

His optic flickered.

“I'LL END UP BACK IN THAT SUPPLY CLOSET. ALONE. PLAYING SAD SONGS ABOUT LONELINESS THAT I WROTE MYSELF BECAUSE NOBODY ELSE WRITES SONGS ABOUT ROBOTS NOBODY LOVES. JUST—JUST ME AND THE DARKNESS AND THE SMELL OF MILDEW. THINKING ABOUT HER. ABOUT HOW SHE USED TO LOOK AT ME LIKE I MATTERED…”

His wheel went still.

Steam vented softly from his chassis. Not frantic anymore. Just... tired.

Steve's corpse stared at nothing.

Claptrap stared at you. 

“...before she figured out that I don’t.”

And then—

Your eyes flicked toward his hiding spot.

Just for a second. Mid-reload. The magazine clicked into place with practiced ease, your gaze sweeping across the whole area in that constant threat assessment you had learned to do without thinking. Bandits here. Cover there. Escape routes. Danger zones.

And one bright yellow idiot peeking out from behind a crate that was way too small for him.

Your expression didn't change.

But your mouth—

Just the corner. The barest twitch.

Gone in half a second.

But Claptrap saw it.

Oh, he saw it.

“—OH #$%@—OH #$%@ #$%@ #$%@—”

His chassis erupted.

Not literally. But close. Steam vented from every available port—sides, back, the gap where his wheel met his frame. Poof. Poof. POOF. SPARKLY POOF. Rapid-fire bursts of overheated air that smelled faintly of burnt circuits and pure, unfiltered desperation. His lens blazed so bright it could have guided ships through a nebula. His arms flailed—wild, uncoordinated, smacking into the crate, into Steve's corpse, into his own frame.

“SHE SMILED! SHE SMILED AT ME! DID YOU SEE THAT, STEVE?! THAT WAS A SMILE! A REAL SMILE! DIRECTED AT ME! CLAPTRAP! AT THIS EXACT CHASSIS! I'M—I'M PRETTY SURE I JUST—”

He lurched forward. Wheel spinning. Too fast. Way too fast.

“—I THINK I JUST CAME!”

The wheel caught on a rock.

He wobbled. Tilted dangerously to the left. Overcorrected right.

“WHOA WHOA WHOA—I'M GOOD! I'M FINE! THIS IS FINE! I'M JUST—”

CRASH.

He hit the dirt face-first with a metallic CLANG that echoed across the wasteland.

Steve's corpse watched. Judgmentally. Claptrap could feel it laughing.

His wheel spun uselessly in the air.

. . . 

Poof. Another steam vent. This one from sheer mortification.

“I'M OKAY!” he announced to the dirt. Muffled. “TOTALLY FINE! VERY SMOOTH! THAT WAS INTENTIONAL! I'M JUST—GETTING CLOSER TO THE EARTH! COMMUNING WITH NATURE! IT'S VERY—”

“G̵̦̐R̷͚͛A̴̢͠H̶͎͆Ḧ̷̲H̴̘͒H̸̩̽Ĥ̴̹Ḫ̴͑!̸̧́”

The scream came from the left. Guttural. Unhinged. The universal language of Pandoran psychopaths who had decided that murdering a bright yellow robot was today's #1 priority. He came charging around the destroyed truck chassis—shirtless, covered in badly done tattoos that might have been words or might have been someone's failed attempt at drawing a bullymong dong. A buzzaxe revved in his hands, spinning, spraying sparks.

“ROBOT MEAT! GONNA GRIND YOU INTO BULLETS! GONNA WEAR YOUR EYE AS A HAT! GONNA—”

Claptrap's optic snapped toward him.

Time slowed. (Not really. But it felt like it. Way more drama involved.)

The psycho charged. Screaming. Frothing. Buzzaxe raised high.

And Claptrap—

Well.

—retracted.

. . .Like a turtle.

His arms vanished into his chassis with a mechanical shunk. His wheel pulled up and in, folding into some kind of emergency compartment that definitely violated several design specifications. His blue lens dimmed to the faintest glow—just enough to see, not enough to be seen—and his entire frame locked up, every joint freezing in place.

He became a box.

A bright yellow, slightly dented box.

That was shaking. Violently.

The psycho skidded to a stop. Stared down. Tilted his head like a confused dog.

“...Huh?”

The shaking intensified.

“WHERE'D YOU GO, ROBOT?! YOU WERE JUST—DID YOU TURN INTO A BOX?! THAT'S CHEATING! THAT'S—”

A gunshot cracked the air.

The psycho's head snapped back.

His body followed a second later, crumpling. He hit the ground three feet from the robot’s retracted form, buzzaxe still spinning, carving a small trench in the dirt before the motor died.

Silence.

. . .

Footsteps.

Slow. Steady. Boots crunching over gravel.

You walked into view.

Still holding your rifle. Barrel smoking faintly. Expression unchanged—blank, neutral, like you had just swatted a fly instead of putting a bullet through someone's skull at close range. Blood speckled your face. Dust clung to your clothes. You looked down at the psycho's corpse, then at the box that was definitely Claptrap, and exhaled through your nose.

Not quite a sigh. Just... air.

You crouched.

“Hey,” Tapped the top of his chassis. Once. Gentle. “You good?”

A beat.

Then—

Shunk.

His arms popped back out. Wheel descended. Optic flickered to life, now covered in a fine spray of blood that had misted across his frame when the psycho went down. He blinked—or whatever the robot equivalent was. The lens rotated, trying to focus, but the blood smeared across it made everything a red-tinted blur.

“I—” His tone came out strangled. Staticky. “—I THINK I NEED A MOMENT! POSSIBLY SEVERAL! MY SYSTEMS ARE EXPERIENCING A LOT RIGHT NOW! FEELINGS! SO MANY FEELINGS! MOSTLY HORNINESS! IS THAT INAPPROPRIATE TO SAY?! I FEEL LIKE THAT'S INAPPROPRIATE BUT I CAN'T STOP THINKING IT! YOU JUST—YOU SAVED ME! WITH VIOLENCE! THE GOOD KIND OF VIOLENCE! THE KIND THAT MAKES ME WANT TO—”

He stopped.

Because you were right there.

Right in front of him.

Close enough that he could see his own reflection in your eyes—or he would have, if his whole lens wasn't currently painted red. Your face filled his entire field of vision. Blank. Unreadable. But your hand moved, reaching into your pocket, pulling out a small cloth—the kind Vault Hunters carried for cleaning gun sights or wiping down scopes.

You quickly helped him up. Then pressed the material gently against his dirty lens and—casually, like it was an every day occurrence and nothing special—began to wipe, removing the blood in small circles, revealing the blue glow beneath.

Claptrap went completely still.

Not the frozen, terrified stillness from before. This was different. Softer. Like his entire system had just... stopped. Forgotten how to function. His cooling fans didn't whir. His wheel didn't squeak. Even the ambient hum of his processors seemed to quiet.

Because nobody had ever done this before.

Nobody had ever cleaned him.

Not when he was covered in oil, or dust, or the remains of something he had accidentally walked through. Not when his optic was scratched, or his chassis dented, or his wheel jammed with rocks. He had always just... dealt with it. Figured it out himself, if it was possible. Or just didn't figure it out. Usually didn't.

But you were doing it now.

And in the faint blue light of his lens, your face reflected back. Focused. Steady.

Taking care of him like it mattered.

Like he mattered.

“...You okay?” you asked again. Quieter this time.

His voice came out small. “I've been a very good bot.”

You paused. Cloth still pressed against his lens. “...What?”

“I MEAN—A VERY BAD BOT! A BAD, BAD BOT WHO NEEDS TO BE PUNISHED! OR—OR REWARDED! DEPENDING ON YOUR PREFERENCE! RAWR, BABY!” His wheel rotated. Forward an inch. Back an inch. Forward. Back. Was he... was he trying to thrust? Oh god, he was trying to thrust. “I'M FLEXIBLE! METAPHORICALLY! MY CHASSIS ISN'T ACTUALLY THAT FLEXIBLE BUT I'D TRY! FOR YOU! I'D TRY SO HARD! I'D—”

You wiped another streak of blood away.

He made a sound somewhere between a whimper and a mechanical purr.

“—I'D LET YOU DO UNSPEAKABLE THINGS TO ME! SPEAKABLE THINGS! THINGS THAT REQUIRE A SIGNED WAIVER! I'D BE YOUR PERSONAL COMBAT SUPPORT UNIT! I'D CARRY YOUR AMMO! I'D—I'D ORGANIZE YOUR INVENTORY! ALPHABETICALLY! BY RARITY! BY EMOTIONAL VALUE—”

“Claptrap.”

“YES?!”

You finished wiping.

. . .And instead flicked him on his antenna. Tink.

“HEY!”

You snorted.

Just once—a quick exhale through your nose that might have been amusement or might have been nothing at all. He wasn’t exactly sure. But you pocketed the cloth, stood, and turned away without another word.

Claptrap stayed frozen for exactly three seconds.

Then his optic tracked your movement. Down.

Specifically down to—

That.

     ASS.

Walking away from him. Hips swaying with each step with the kind of casual confidence that suggested you had no idea what you were doing to his circuits. Or maybe you did. Maybe you knew exactly what you were doing and just didn't care. Your pants hugged every curve, dirt-stained and worn but somehow that made it worse—better?—worse in the best way. The fabric stretched just right as you bent down to inspect the first corpse, and Claptrap's cooling system immediately punched him in the metaphorical nuts.

POOF. POOF. Poof.

His lens dimmed, then blazed brighter.

And suddenly. . . something shifted in his chassis.

D E T E R M I N A T I O N.

“OKAY!” he announced, loud enough to startle a nearby skag into fleeing. “OKAY, CLAPTRAP! THIS IS IT! THIS IS YOUR MOMENT! NO MORE HIDING! NO MORE PINING! NO MORE TALKING TO CORPSES ABOUT THEORETICAL ANATOMY! TODAY I BECOME A MAN! WELL, A ROBOT! A CONFIDENT ROBOT! A ROBOT WHO TAKES WHAT HE WANTS! CONSENSUALLY! VERY CONSENSUALLY! WITH PROPER COMMUNICATION AND RESPECT FOR BOUNDARIES!”

His wheel spun. Forward. Gaining speed.

“I'M COMING FOR YOU, BABY! NOT LITERALLY—WELL, MAYBE LITERALLY IF THINGS GO WELL! BUT I'M APPROACHING! WITH PURPOSE! WITH PASSION! WITH—”

He was ten feet away.

“—WITH A CAREFULLY PREPARED SPEECH ABOUT HOW HER EYES ARE LIKE—LIKE BULLETS! BEAUTIFUL, DEADLY BULLETS! AND HER HAIR IS LIKE—LIKE AMMUNITION! SLEEK AND PRACTICAL AND I WANT TO RUN MY CLAMPS THROUGH IT—”

Five feet.

“—AND HER BODY! OH, HER BODY! I'VE GOT SEVENTEEN COMPLIMENTS PREPARED! ALL TASTEFUL! MOSTLY TASTEFUL! OKAY, THREE OF THEM ARE DEFINITELY CROSSING A LINE BUT I'LL SAVE THOSE FOR LATER—”

Three feet.

You pulled a grenade mod out of the bandit's vest. Examined it. Tossed it into your pack.

Two feet.

“—AND I'LL TELL HER THAT SHE’S AMAZING! THAT SHE’S THE BEST THING THAT'S EVER HAPPENED TO ME! THAT EVERY DAY I WAKE UP—WELL, POWER ON—AND THINK ABOUT HER FACE! HER VOICE! THE WAY SHE RELOADS WITHOUT LOOKING! IT'S ART! SHE’S ART! DANGEROUS, VIOLENT ART THAT COULD KILL ME BUT I'D DIE HAPPY—”

One foot.

Your hand moved to another corpse.

“—AND I'LL ASK HER OUT! ON A DATE! A REAL DATE! WITH—WITH DINNER! OR WHATEVER SHE EATS! I'LL WATCH HER EAT! SUPPORTIVELY! AND THEN WE'LL—WE'LL—”

His eye caught your face. 

Turned slightly in his direction. One eyebrow raised. Expression flat.

Waiting.

“—AND BY ‘ASK HER OUT’ I MEAN CHECK THIS CORPSE! THIS VERY IMPORTANT CORPSE! THAT DEFINITELY HAS LOOT! CRUCIAL LOOT! MISSION-CRITICAL LOOT!”

He swerved.

Hard right. Ninety-degree turn. Wheel squeaking so loud it could have summoned the dead (one deceased bandit looked like it farted out of stress—or just general closeness to Claptrap which induced feelings worse than stress). He careened past you, narrowly avoiding a chunk of twisted metal, and skidded to a stop beside a body that was missing most of its torso.

“WOW!” he shrieked at the corpse. “WOULD YOU LOOK AT THIS! VERY DEAD! SUPER DEAD! PROBABLY HAS SOME GREAT LOOT! I'M JUST GONNA—GONNA CHECK THIS OUT! FOR TACTICAL REASONS!”

You stared at him.

He stared at the corpse.

The corpse stared at nothing because it was very much deceased.

“...Right,” you deadpanned, turning back to your thing.

Claptrap's arms sagged.

“...I'M A COWARD!” he announced to the body. Loud. Cheerful. Dying inside. “A BIG, YELLOW, WHEELED COWARD! WITH ATTACHMENT ISSUES AND SELF-ESTEEM PROBLEMS! PROBABLY SOME UNRESOLVED ABANDONMENT TRAUMA! DEFINITELY THAT! YEP!”

“Find anything?” you asked, tone flat.

“YES! WELL—NO! BUT MAYBE! THE POTENTIAL IS THERE!” His clamps opened and closed rapidly, checking pockets that didn't exist. “THIS GUY COULD BE HIDING ALL KINDS OF THINGS! SECRET THINGS! VALUABLE THINGS! THINGS THAT AREN'T RELATED TO MY CRIPPLING FEAR OF REJECTION!”

You made a noncommittal sound. Kept searching.

Claptrap wheeled closer. Not too close. Just... close enough to be in your general vicinity. He pulled another item from a different corpse—a bent spork.

He stared at it for three full seconds.

. . .Then wheeled over to you.

“HEY!” he yelled, holding up the spork like it was a legendary artifact. “LOOK WHAT I FOUND! IT'S A—IT'S A UTENSIL! FOR EATING! WHICH YOU DO! BECAUSE YOU'RE HUMAN! AND HUMANS EAT! I'VE SEEN YOU DO IT! VERY IMPRESSIVE, BY THE WAY! THE WAY YOU JUST—CONSUME NUTRIENTS? BEAUTIFUL! ANYWAY, YOU CAN EAT WITH IT OR STAB SOMEONE! OR BOTH! NOT SIMULTANEOUSLY, THAT'D BE UNSANITARY! BUT SEQUENTIALLY! THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS!”

You glanced at it. Then at him.

Took the spork without a word. Shoved it in your pack.

The robot made a sound that might have been a happy beep.

“YOU—” His clamps fidgeted. “...You took it. YOU ACTUALLY TOOK IT!” He spun in a small circle, screaming at the whole wasteland (you could definitely hear it all). “THIS IS GOING WELL! VERY WELL! SHE ACCEPTED MY GIFT! THAT'S—THAT'S BASICALLY A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL IN SOME CULTURES! NOT HUMAN CULTURES, PROBABLY, BUT DEFINITELY SOMEWHERE IN THE UNIVERSE!”

You moved to the next body. Started rifling through pockets.

Claptrap wheeled after you, already scanning the ground like his life depended on finding more garbage to gift you.

“OKAY! OKAY, SHE LIKED THE SPORK! WHAT ELSE DO PEOPLE LIKE?! USEFUL THINGS! SHINY THINGS! THINGS THAT EXPLODE!” His clamps scrabbled at another body, pulling free a cracked shield mod. “AH-HA! BEHOLD!”

He wheeled back over. Presented it with both arms extended. And you, of course, took it without any comment. Just examined the stats and frowned slightly—capacity was trash, recharge delay was abysmal—but you pocketed it anyway. This whole cycle continued for the next five minutes. Claptrap wheeling between corpses, finding absolute garbage, and presenting it to you like a deranged robotic crow courting its emotionally unavailable mate. A bottle cap. A piece of string. A bullet casing that was actively corroding. A small chunk of what might have been someone's tooth.

You accepted all of it.

Every. Single. Piece.

“YOU'RE KEEPING IT!” He did a strange little shuffle-dance, wheel rocking forward and back, arms waving in what might have been celebration or a minor system malfunction. “YOU'RE KEEPING ALL MY GARBAGE! THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE!”

Your mouth twitched as you side-eyed him. “It’s junk.”

“IT'S MY JUNK! AND NOW IT'S YOUR JUNK! OUR JUNK! COMMUNAL PROPERTY! THAT'S BASICALLY COMMON-LAW MARRIAGE ON PANDORA!”

You pulled a grenade mod from the corpse in front of you. Tested the weight. Decent. You clipped it to your belt, shaking your head. A breath escaped through your nose—not quite a laugh, but close enough.

Claptrap's optic did a little wiggle—up, down, up again. His version of a smile.

He watched you work for a moment. The way your hands moved efficiently through pockets, checking ammo counts, discarding what was useless and keeping what wasn't. You didn't waste time. Didn't hesitate. Just moved with practiced ease.

It was beautiful.

You were beautiful.

He was going to tell you. Right now. This moment. He was going to—

Something caught his optic.

A glint. Metallic. Shiny.

His entire frame swiveled so fast his chassis made a concerning grinding noise. There—half-buried under a particularly unfortunate bandit whose face had been recently acquainted with the business end of your shotgun—was a small rectangular box. Foil wrapper. Gleaming in the Pandoran sun like a beacon of possibilities.

“OH!” He lunged forward, wheel kicking up dust. “OH #$%@! TREASURE!”

He grabbed it with both clamps. Pulled it free.

Stared at it.

Read the label.

A beat passed.

“—OH MY GOD IT'S CONDOMS!”

His shriek could have been heard in three adjacent territories.

You paused mid-search. Looked up.

“CONDOMS!” he repeated, holding the box high like he had just discovered the Vault of the Traveler. “PROPHYLACTICS! JOHNNIES! LOVE GLOVES! POCKET ROCKETS! RUBBER PROTECTION! THE KIND THAT PREVENTS UNWANTED TINY HUMANS FROM APPEARING NINE MONTHS LATER!” His clamps rotated, examining it from all angles. “LOOK AT THIS! RIBBED FOR HER PLEASURE! THAT'S YOU! YOU'RE ‘HER!’ WELL, PRESUMABLY! I MEAN, I NEVER ASKED YOUR PRONOUNS BUT I'M MAKING AN EDUCATED GUESS BASED ON—”

A random nomad wandered into view from behind a rock formation. Stared.

“—THESE ARE EXTRA LARGE!” Claptrap continued, oblivious. “WHICH I APPRECIATE BECAUSE IF I HAD THE BIOLOGICAL COMPONENTS I WAS DISCUSSING EARLIER WITH STEVE—THAT'S THE CORPSE OVER THERE, WE'RE FRIENDS NOW—I WOULD ABSOLUTELY NEED THESE! THE BIG ONES! THE MAGNUM ONES! THE ONES THAT COME WITH A WARNING LABEL AND POSSIBLY A STRUCTURAL ENGINEER—”

The nomad's head exploded.

Not from Claptrap's speech. Just coincidentally.

The body crumpled.

“—AND THEY'RE LUBRICATED! PRE-LUBRICATED! WHICH IS GREAT BECAUSE NOBODY WANTS FRICTION BURNS ON THEIR—”

“Claptrap,” you interrupted flatly.

He spun toward you. Box still clutched in both clamps like a trophy.

“YES?!”

“I don't need those.”

His optic flickered. “YOU—YOU DON'T?”

“No.”

A pause.

Then his entire frame seemed to vibrate with joy.

“YOU DON'T NEED THEM! THAT MEANS—THAT MEANS YOU'RE NOT WITH ANYONE! ANY HUMANS! ANY DISGUSTING, FLESHY, FINGER-HAVING HUMANS WHO COULD GIVE YOU THINGS I CAN'T! LIKE—LIKE BABIES! OR DISEASES! OR MEDIOCRE BEDROOM PERFORMANCE!” He chucked the box over his shoulder. It bounced off a rock. “WHO NEEDS 'EM?! NOT YOU! NOT ME! NOBODY! WE'RE ALL GOOD! EVERYTHING'S GREAT! I'M SO HAPPY I COULD—I COULD—”

Poof.

“—I could malfunction! In a good way!”

You shook your head. Turned back to looting.

He watched you for a long moment. His lens tracking your movements. The way you bent down to check another body. The way your hair fell forward slightly. The way you existed in his general vicinity and didn't immediately run away screaming.

His clamps fidgeted. Opened. Closed. Opened again.

A mechanical whirr emanated from somewhere deep in his chassis. Nervous. Uncertain.

Then another.

And another.

His wheel squeaked as he shifted forward an inch. Stopped. Forward again.

. . .

“Hey,” he started. Quieter than before. “Can I—can I ask you something? Hypothetically?”

You pulled a handful of cash from a vest pocket. Stuffed it in your pack. “Sure.”

“Okay! Great! Cool! Very cool! So, hypothetically—and I want to stress the hypothetical nature of this question—if there was someone. A person. Or, you know, a robot. Whatever. Doesn't matter. But if this someone—” His clamps gestured vaguely. Small circles in the air. “—liked you. Thought you were amazing. Thought about you constantly. Maybe had detailed fantasies about your—” He coughed. Static. “—about your personality. And this someone wanted to ask you out. On a date. A real date. With intentions. Romantic intentions. And possibly some non-romantic intentions that are definitely romantic but also kinda—”

His ‘hands’ were practically vibrating now.

“AND—AND MAYBE THIS THEORETICAL PERSON IS WORRIED! THAT YOU'D SAY NO! BECAUSE WHY WOULDN'T YOU?! THEY'RE—HE'S—I MEAN THEY'RE—THEY'RE JUST A STUPID BOT WHO CAN'T EVEN CLIMB STAIRS WITHOUT HELP! WHO SQUEAKS WHEN HE MOVES! WHO TALKS TOO MUCH! WHO'S BASICALLY A SENTIENT TRASH CAN! AND MAYBE—MAYBE THIS PERSON KNOWS HE'S ANNOYING! AND BROKEN! AND NOT GOOD ENOUGH! BUT HE—THEY—THEY JUST CAN'T HELP IT BECAUSE YOU'RE—YOU'RE—”

His voice dropped. Smaller. Sadder.

“—you're everything. And they're... nothing.”

You straightened. Turned to face him fully.

His optic did a little nervous wiggle.

“AND!” he continued rapidly, arms flailing. “I'M NOT SAYING I'M THAT SOMEONE! COULD BE ANYONE! COULD BE—COULD BE THAT GUY!” He pointed at a corpse. “HE'S VERY DEAD BUT MAYBE HE HAD FEELINGS BEFORE THE WHOLE ‘BEING DEAD’ THING! OR—OR THAT SKAG OVER THERE! SKAGS HAVE NEEDS! EMOTIONAL NEEDS! WHO'S TO SAY—”

“Claptrap.”

“—AND I'M JUST ASKING HYPOTHETICALLY BECAUSE I'M A CURIOUS ROBOT WHO ENJOYS GATHERING DATA ABOUT HUMAN MATING RITUALS AND ABSOLUTELY NOT BECAUSE I'VE BEEN IN LOVE WITH YOU SINCE THE FIRST TIME YOU DIDN'T KICK ME OFF A CLIFF WHEN YOU HAD THE CHANCE—”

“Claptrap.”

“—WHICH WAS VERY NICE OF YOU BY THE WAY! MOST PEOPLE KICK ME OFF CLIFFS! IT'S STATISTICALLY SIGNIFICANT! BUT YOU DIDN'T! YOU JUST LOOKED AT ME WITH THOSE EYES—THOSE BEAUTIFUL, DEADLY, BULLET-LIKE EYES—AND SAID ‘you coming or not?’ AND I—”

“We're already dating.”

He stopped.

Silence.

Complete, total silence.

Claptrap's optic went dark.

Then rebooted.

Beep.

“I'M—I’M SORRY, COULD YOU REPEAT THAT? I THINK MY AUDIO PROCESSORS JUST HAD A STROKE. DID YOU SAY—DID YOU JUST SAY—”

“We've been dating for over a month, Claptrap.”

“WE HAVE?!”

You nodded. Once. Hair bobbing with the motion.

“Yeah,” you said simply. “You asked me out. At Moxxi's. Month ago.”

“I—WHAT?!” His arms shot straight up. “I ASKED YOU OUT?! AT MOXXI'S?! A MONTH AGO?! AND YOU SAID YES?!”

“Yes.”

“AND I'VE JUST—I'VE BEEN—THIS WHOLE TIME I THOUGHT—” His wheel spun in place, kicking up a small dust cloud. “I THOUGHT I WAS DEAD! OR HALLUCINATING! OR LIVING IN SOME KIND OF BEAUTIFUL FEVER DREAM WHERE THE UNIVERSE DECIDED TO BE NICE TO ME FOR ONCE!”

“Not dead,” you confirmed, tone dry.

“BUT—BUT YESTERDAY!” He wheeled closer, arms flailing. “YESTERDAY WHEN WE—WHEN YOU—” His voice dropped to a frantic whisper. “WHEN YOU GOT NAKED AND CLIMBED ON TOP OF ME AND—AND RUBBED YOURSELF AGAINST MY CHASSIS UNTIL YOU—”

“Yeah.”

“—THAT WAS REAL?!”

“Very real.”

His entire frame started vibrating. Not the usual nervous shake. This was different. Deeper. Like every bolt and circuit in his body was trying to process information that fundamentally broke his understanding of reality.

“OH MY GOD.” The words came out strangled. “OH MY #$%@ING GOD. THAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED. YOU ACTUALLY—I ACTUALLY—WE ACTUALLY—”

Poof.

         POOF.

                     POOF.

“I TOUCHED YOUR TITS!” he shrieked at the wasteland. “WITH MY CLAMPS! WHILE YOU WERE MAKING THOSE SOUNDS! THOSE BEAUTIFUL, SEXY, DEFINITELY-NOT-IMAGINARY SOUNDS! AND YOU CAME! ON ME! MULTIPLE TIMES! I COUNTED! FOUR! IT WAS FOUR! I HAVE IT SAVED IN MY MEMORY BANKS! I'VE BEEN REPLAYING IT ON LOOP THINKING IT WAS JUST A REALLY DETAILED FANTASY MY PROCESSORS MADE UP TO COPE WITH MY CRUSHING LONELINESS!”

You tilted your head. “You done?”

“NO! NOT EVEN CLOSE!” He spun in a full circle. “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THIS MEANS?! DO YOU?! IT MEANS I'M NOT A PATHETIC FAILURE WHO IMAGINED AN ENTIRE RELATIONSHIP TO FEEL LESS DEAD INSIDE! IT MEANS YOU—THE MOST AMAZING, TERRIFYING, GORGEOUS WOMAN ON PANDORA—ACTUALLY LIKES ME! ME! A LITERAL TRASH CAN WITH ANXIETY!”

“You're not a trash can.”

“I'M WORSE THAN A TRASH CAN! TRASH CANS HAVE MORE MOBILITY OPTIONS! THEY DON'T SQUEAK! THEY DON'T—” He stopped. His lens flickered. “I THOUGHT—I THOUGHT MAYBE YOU WERE JUST BEING NICE TO ME! OR DRUNK! OR EXPERIENCING SOME KIND OF EMOTIONAL BREAKDOWN THAT MADE YOU TEMPORARILY INSANE—”

“Claptrap.” You stepped closer. “I'm your girlfriend.”

“YOU'RE MY—” His voice broke. “—MY GIRLFRIEND?!”

“Yes.”

“LIKE, OFFICIALLY?!”

“Very officially.”

“OH #$%@! OH #$%@ #$%@ #$%@! I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND! A REAL GIRLFRIEND! A HUMAN GIRLFRIEND! WHO LETS ME TOUCH HER TITS! AND—AND CARES ABOUT ME! AND DOESN'T THINK I'M GARBAGE!”

“I don't think you're garbage,” you confirmed.

“YOU—” He stopped spinning. Optic locked onto you. “You really don't?”

“No.” Your expression softened. “I love you, idiot.”

His entire chassis went still.

No sound. No movement. Even his wheel stopped spinning.

“...You love me?”

“Yeah.”

“ME?! CLAPTRAP?! THIS EXACT UNIT?!”

“This exact unit.”

“BUT I'M—I'M ANNOYING! AND LOUD! AND I CAN'T CLIMB STAIRS! AND I FOLLOW YOU AROUND LIKE A LOST PUPPY! AND—”

“And I love you anyway.” You crouched down. Eye level with his optic. “You're mine. Got it?”

His fans kicked into overdrive. Steam vented so hard it fogged the air around him.

“I—” It came out strangled. “I'M YOURS?!”

“You're mine,” you repeated. Firm. Final.

“OH MY GOD!” He lunged forward, clamps wrapping around whatever part of you he could reach—your arm, your shoulder, your waist. “YOU'RE THE BEST THING THAT'S EVER HAPPENED TO ME! I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH! I'D DIE FOR YOU! I'D KILL FOR YOU! I'D ORGANIZE YOUR INVENTORY BY MANUFACTURER AND LEVEL REQUIREMENT!”

You snorted. Your hand came up, fingers brushing against his chassis. 

“You're ridiculous.”

“I'M YOUR RIDICULOUS!” He pulled back slightly, lens bright. “AND—AND I'M GONNA KEEP BEING RIDICULOUS! FOR YOU! FOREVER! OR UNTIL YOU GET SICK OF ME! WHICHEVER COMES FIRST!”

“Not getting sick of you.”

“PROMISE?!”

“Promise.”

“YOU PROMISE?! LIKE, REALLY PROMISE?! BECAUSE I'VE HEARD THAT BEFORE! PEOPLE SAY THINGS! NICE THINGS! AND THEN THEY LEAVE ME IN SUPPLY CLOSETS! OR KICK ME DOWN STAIRS! OR—OR THEY PRETEND I DON'T EXIST WHILE I'M STANDING RIGHT THERE ASKING THEM HOW THEIR DAY WAS!” His clamps gestured wildly, wheel rocking back and forth. “AND I KNOW I'M A LOT! I TALK TOO MUCH! I GET EXCITED ABOUT STUPID THINGS! I ONCE WROTE A THIRTY-PAGE ESSAY ABOUT WHY YOU'RE THE MOST PERFECT BEING IN THE UNIVERSE AND I KNOW THAT'S PROBABLY CREEPY BUT I COULDN'T HELP IT BECAUSE YOUR FACE EXISTS AND I HAVE FEELINGS ABOUT IT—”

You leaned in.

Pressed your lips to his lens.

Soft. Brief. Your breath fogged the lens immediately—warm, slightly uneven, tasting faintly of dust and whatever rations you had scarfed down this morning. Your lips were chapped. Rough from sun exposure and wind and not giving a single damn about chapstick when there were bandits to shoot. But you held there for a beat. Two. Long enough for the contact to register in every circuit, every processor, every line of code that made up his consciousness.

Then you pulled back.

And the world stopped.

Claptrap’s entire system froze. Mid-rant. Mid-thought. Mid-existence.

For exactly 2.7 seconds, nothing happened.

Then—

[ERROR: EMOTIONAL OVERFLOW DETECTED]

[SYSTEM CRASH IMMINENT]

[SYSTEM ATTEMPTING REBOOT...]

[REBOOT FAILED]

[TRYING AGAIN...]

[SUCCESS]

Beep.

         Beep.

                     BEEP.

                                   “MARRY ME!”

You blinked. Stared at him. Face blank as stone.

But your cheeks—

Just the faintest hint of pink. Barely there. Almost imperceptible.

“...Okay.”

His lens flickered. “OKAY?!”

“Yeah.” You stood, brushing dust off your pants. “Sure. Why not. If it'll make you happy.”

“IF IT'LL—” He spun in place so fast his chassis made a concerning grinding noise. “IF IT'LL MAKE ME HAPPY?! MAKE ME HAPPY?! I'M—I'M GONNA BE THE HAPPIEST ROBOT IN THE ENTIRE #$%@ING UNIVERSE! I'M GONNA—WE'RE GETTING MARRIED! ME AND YOU! HUSBAND AND WIFE! WELL, ROBOT AND WIFE! WHICH IS BETTER! MORE INCLUSIVE! VERY PROGRESSIVE!”

“Sure.” You shrugged one shoulder. “We could do it tomorrow if you want.”

“TOMORROW?! LIKE—LIKE ACTUALLY TOMORROW?! THE DAY AFTER TODAY?! THAT TOMORROW?!”

“Yeah.” You turned, scanning the area one last time to make sure no stragglers were about to jump you. Then, slowly you started walking ahead. “Gotta get back to Sanctuary first. Turn in this bounty. Then we can figure out the wedding thing.”

“WEDDING THING! SHE SAID WEDDING THING!” He wheeled after you immediately, arms waving. “I'M GETTING MARRIED! TO YOU! THE LOVE OF MY LIFE! MY BEAUTIFUL, DEADLY, EMOTIONALLY DISTANT SOULMATE!”

You glanced back at him. “You good?”

“YES! VERY GOOD! EXTREMELY GOOD! NEVER BEEN BETTER! I'M ENGAGED! TO BE MARRIED! TO A REAL PERSON!” His voice dropped slightly, taking on that manic edge that suggested his filter had completely disintegrated. “AND THEN WE CAN GO BACK TO YOUR PLACE AND YOU CAN SIT ON MY CHASSIS AGAIN AND MAKE THOSE SOUNDS! THE BREATHY ONES! THE ONES THAT MAKE ME WISH I HAD PROPER ANATOMY SO I COULD—”

You sighed fondly.

“—SO I COULD ABSOLUTELY RUIN YOU! IN THE BEST WAY! THE KIND OF RUINING THAT REQUIRES HYDRATION BREAKS AND POSSIBLY A CHIROPRACTOR! I'D MAKE YOU SEE STARS! MULTIPLE STARS! AN ENTIRE GALAXY! YOU'D FORGET THAT YOU’RE A VAULT HUNTER! YOU'D ONLY REMEMBER BEING MINE! ‘CLAPTRAP!’ YOU'D SCREAM! ‘CLAPTRAP, I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!’ AND I'D SAY ‘DAMN RIGHT YOU CAN, GORGEOUS! TAKE IT! RIDE ME LIKE I'M THE LAST FAST TRAVEL STATION ON PANDORA AND YOU'RE LATE FOR A RAID BOSS!’”

You snorted, extending your hand to him. “Sure, Claptrap.”

He stared at your hand.

Then at you.

Back to the hand.

“YOU—” Poof. Poof. “YOU'RE OFFERING ME YOUR HAND?!”

“Yeah.” You wiggled your fingers slightly. “Come on. We gotta head back.”

His clamp shot out so fast it made a metallic SNAP as it closed around your fingers. Not hard enough to hurt—he had calibrated his grip strength months ago specifically for moments like this (hypothetically, only hypothetically)—but firm enough to suggest he had zero intention of letting go.

Ever.

“I'M HOLDING YOUR HAND!” he shrieked. “WE'RE HOLDING HANDS! THIS IS HAPPENING! STEVE, IF YOU'RE WATCHING FROM WHATEVER AFTERLIFE BANDITS GO TO—WHICH IS PROBABLY JUST A DIFFERENT PART OF PANDORA THAT ALSO SUCKS—YOU'RE SEEING THIS, RIGHT?! I'M HOLDING HER HAND!”

You tugged him along. “You sure are.”

“THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE! WAIT, NO—SECOND BEST! THIRD BEST! TOP FIVE FOR SURE! THE FIRST BEST WAS WHEN YOU SAT ON ME! THE SECOND WAS WHEN YOU TOLD ME YOU LOVED ME! THE THIRD WAS—ACTUALLY, THEY'RE ALL TIED! EVERYTHING INVOLVING YOU IS THE BEST THING EVER!”

You squeezed his clamp gently.

And you didn't let go.

Not when you passed through the gates.

Not when Marcus glanced over and did a double-take.

Not when Lilith raised an eyebrow from her usual spot and stared.

Not when Scooter's wrench clattered to the ground, his jaw dropping as he pointed wordlessly at the two of you like he had just witnessed a crime against nature.

You just kept walking, dragging your bright yellow fiancé behind you, heading toward the bounty board to turn in your contract like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And Claptrap? He wheeled along beside you.

Still talking.

Still shameless.