Much Obliged, Sir!

***

By nature, Gumshoe was the kind of man who tried to be helpful. Altruism was his general philosophy, and that suited him well enough. It was only a shame that he didn’t share the faculties of some of his peers, for then he would have been quite an impressive man, indeed.

He did have one characteristic, however, which proved to mitigate his failings: an admission of his own faults, and an inextinguishable desire to rectify them through sheer effort. Whether this worked well or not, it gave his unrefined nature a sort of charming polish.

Speaking of polish, that was about the only useful thing that Gumshoe could imagine would be able to both totally fill his day and -ful-fill his implicit obligations to his benefactor, Edgeworth. Thankfully, Gumshoe’s investigations of Edgeworth’s flat (a less interesting endeavor than observing the average crime scene, since not even a dust bunny seemed to be rampant among the deftly-tended corners) yielded a container of varnish that Gumshoe presumed, by logical deduction, was proper for use on the furniture. Edgeworth’s desk, which had a prominent seat in his home office, seemed a perfect contender for his attentions. It lacked the pristine shine of cheap veneer, which Gumshoe (as a simple enough man) attributed to a lack of care. His entire day was spent stripping surfaces and replacing the prior sheen with one that was quite more lustrous.

He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, his sleeves rolled up about his elbows. It was not until he turned about that he saw Edgeworth, dumbfounded, standing in the doorway of the office-room. Gumshoe had been so intently absorbed in his task that he’d entirely missed the soft sound of a well-oiled door being opened by a rather punctilious man. The whites of Edgeworth’s eyes seemed especially pronounced when his shock was at its most palpable: that inescapably intense expression, with no room for misinterpretation.

“Antique furniture,” Edgeworth managed, between teeth grit with fury, “is not meant to be refinished, much less at an idle whim.” His fingers gripped tightly around the handle of his briefcase, baring his knuckles brazenly.

Suddenly, Gumshoe came under the impression that something was terribly awry. “Er, Mr. Edgeworth?” +Oh… Oh, -shit-.+ He briefly entertained the notion of pretending that there was something in the circumstances which excused his role, but knew that would prove rather ineffectual against prosecutor Miles Edgeworth. Not to mention he’d been caught red handed.

Edgeworth bristled, his eyes focusing on the desk like a microscope above a wayward ant. “Antiques, which is not to say merely -old things-, but, indeed, things of a particularly valuable nature due to their aged yet well-preserved condition, are not to be handled as thoughtlessly as some housewife’s dinner table,” he managed. He walked closer to his desk, setting down his briefcase atop one of the counters to the side as he moved to observe the damage. His fingers ran over the newly shined surfaces. They were much too smooth and cool. He brought his other hand up to massage his forehead. +Disaster….+

Knowing no way to properly respond, Gumshoe scratched the back of his neck with one of his large hands. The ends of his fingers were stained, where he’d been in too much of a hurry to consider wearing gloves. +Perhaps I am bad luck…,+ he considered bleakly. He gripped his hands together, stepping back into Edgeworth’s direct line of sight. “I’m sorry, sir! Once I get my job back, I’ll repay the damages, twice over!” +Anything’s possible! Hypothetically!+

Edgeworth’s expression could have curdled asphalt. “Not in a hundred years. I couldn’t sell you to a sweatshop for the price of this desk.” +Though I might just try.+

“You’ve got my word, if it’s worth anythin’ to you, sir! That’s what it means, to be part of a team. You may have other people around who have more and can do more, but as long as everyone pulls their weight, everybody benefits,” Gumshoe continued with assurance. “I screwed this one up, sir, but watch and see I’ll make it up in spades!” He’d turned that particular shade of red so common to him when he knew that was up to his shoulders in trouble, and just sinking deeper. Even so, he trudged forth with an amazing lack of personal prudence.

“Forget it,” Edgeworth huffed, turning around. He didn’t want to even see his desk again until he’d had a few moments—preferably a few hours—to better brace himself. “What’s done is done. I knew I was inviting difficulty the moment I let you step inside. Punishing you for that is really quite inappropriate, considering this is punishment to myself for getting personally involved with the affairs of my subordinates.” +And now I recall why I stopped wanting to help people …,+ he seethed. “Just try not to bungle anything else, for whatever good it does for me to ask.”

Gumshoe swallowed nervously. “You’re not kicking me out, sir?”

“I, whom I told you—for the sake of my own sanity—to not be called ‘sir’ for the next indeterminable period, have no cause to rescind my offer. Call it my own foolishness that, as a man of the law, I was not more precise when it came to my standards for your stay,” Edgeworth grumbled. +…Absolute, unmitigated disaster.+

***

People are often lumped into two categories: good cooks and bad cooks. This is wildly unfair. In truth, if dualism is really considered so essential, people should be categorized as non-cooks and cooks-of-undefined-prowess. The difference between whether one engages in the culinary arts -at all- is much more significant than between any level once one begins, but that isn’t to say that there can’t be a wide span there as well.

Gumshoe was, for all intents and purposes, a non-cook. Ramen is more of a supplement than an actual meal.

Edgeworth, conversely, was a cook. Now, again, this was not to say that Edgeworth was a good cook, for he was really only passable. He could follow a recipe (for it was actually nothing in comparison to the hoops he had to jump in law school, not to mention when Franziska wanted to play) but there was little creativity involved, which is so essential for true greatness of cuisine.

Of course, it was still quite enough for a dignified meal. Bachelor though he may be, Edgeworth thought far too much of himself to sink to the “frozen waffles and canned spaghetti” level of personal abasement. Instead, he confessed the importance to a breadth of skill—that is, bit the bullet—and learned how to make food worthy of himself. That, of course, meant that Gumshoe was positively floored by the result.

“Y’know, pal, beef noodles really don’t taste much like beef at all,” Gumshoe remarked, as though his comment were a revelation to the ears of man. He hadn’t even noticed his slip to “pal,” though he could easily be considered too in awe to check himself. For the most part, he’d been careful to avoid any incendiary comments—dense as he could be, the fact that he was walking a fine line had become immediately obvious.

Edgeworth downed a sip of bitter tea. “Oh, really,” he mused uninterestedly. +I couldn’t call myself one to recall.+

“Mm,” Gumshoe reiterated, this time, for sake of full mouth, less eloquently than before.

“I’d charge it to the difference in production,” Edgeworth broached, his tone approaching something beyond sheer apathy, though not quite achieving it. +Only the most eloquent dinner conversation awaits me, I’m sure.+ “One is created by raising and butchering cows, the other is made by packaging MSG, salt, and starch into a plastic bag with an arbitrarily chosen flavor printed on the front.” He lifted a forkful of potato into his mouth, feeling decidedly low on appetite, unable to shake his absolute revulsion at what had happened to his desk, which was practically a friend by Edgeworth’s rather pathetic standards.

“Yeah, that’s probably true enough. I mean, what with the price of steak, I can’t imagine how much cow-ness ten cents could buy you, especially with the noodles and everythin’ included. In fact, I’m suspicious enough as is….” Having finished his meal with one last impressive mouthful, Gumshoe stuck his hands in his coat pockets (for the room was kept quite chilly), letting his gaze meander about the room awkwardly. +Now that I think about it, I probably should have eaten that a bit slower. It’s not like I’ve got work to do….+ “Well, thanks for the meal, Mr. Edgeworth. Don’t think I’ve had anythin’ like that since the department’s New Year’s celebration. …I don’t suppose you’d like me to clean up or suchlike?”

Edgeworth glowered. “No, I think you’ve done quite enough damage for one day.” Letting his eyes fall to his remaining meal, he let out a small snort of breath. “I must say I’d rather you consider yourself a guest and, if at all possible, avoid touching things of a particularly valuable or delicate nature.” +Furniture, china, trophies, windows, carpeting, floor, walls, the list goes on.+

“R-right, Mr. Edgeworth.”


(To be continued...)