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There are a few things that Gumshoe knows about himself from an early age, and one of the most important of that is his height and stature. He is big and imposing, towers over most people that he knows. In grade school it meant that kids would come up and try to pick on him, trying to prove something, usually pressured into it by a friend. Like taking down Gumshoe meant something. He didn’t go looking for a fight, but he wasn’t exactly the kind to just tolerate a thrown punch. His mom never liked him coming come with bruises and scratches, skinned knees that could be explained away once or twice but never more than three times. And since Gumshoe can’t stop the fights, he instead finds a way to hide them from his mom.
The first coat he gets is second hand - all of his clothes are. The only time that Gumshoe gets something fancy and new is once a year for his birthday, when his mom takes him into one of those department stores at the mall and lets him pick something out. He usually goes for a sturdy pair of shoes - his mother doesn’t know what he does, if he drags his feet or walks weird or something, but he’s hell on shoes, and at least brand new shoes last more than a couple of months. So the coat he gets isn’t new; when he gets the thing it’s always fraying and the end of the sleeves are ragged and one of the pockets has such a large hole it’s functionally useless But it’s comforting and big enough that it hides the bruises on his forearm and long enough that even in the summer he can usually disguise the scratches and knicks on his knees.
For the first portion of his young life, Gumshoe doesn’t like being so big. It feels like a curse, almost, and never seems to let up. All throughout elementary and middle school he’s plagued with growth spurts that make him always feel a little unbalanced and means he’s constantly growing out of his favorite shirts.
He finds the cat at recess.
There’s a group of kids all huddled around something at the far end of the field, far enough that the old lady adults that are in charge of watching them can’t be bothered to investigate - they usually don’t, perched somewhere in the shade, drinking a soda, looking the other way when kids are getting into trouble. Gumshoe can count on one hand the number of times they’ve actually helped him when he’s been ganged up on.
Usually he stays away from groups like that - it pretty much only means trouble. But the kids playing kickball have too many team members as is and it means that even though they let him play with them they keep pushing him to the back of the line and putting him in the farthest outfield position they have so he gives up about halfway through and goes to check out the huddle of kids.
They’re picking on the little thing.
He can hear it before he can actually see it, and it’s a sound unfamiliar to him. At home they don’t have any pets, where would they find the extra money to feed another mouth, and while the family next door technically has a cat it’s this old fat thing that Gumshoe has only seen sitting in a window, leisurely looking out at the birds in the garden. Until that day, he’s never actually heard the hissing and spitting of a cat.
It doesn’t take too long to get a hold of the situation. The kitten’s this ball of mangy fur with one leg caught in the chain link fence, and the kids are poking it and prodding it with sticks and throwing pebbles at it, laughing at the noises it makes in protest. Apparently they don’t just enjoy picking on things that are bigger than them like Gumshoe. Apparently small helpless things are right up their alley too.
One of them says something and pulls out a pair of safety scissors from their pocket - the kind that each of the kids are given at the beginning of the school year and aren’t supposed to be taken out of their tool boxes except for arts and crafts. They start to brandish the scissors towards the cat and Gumshoe doesn’t know what they’re intending - maybe they think they can use it to cut the kitten free, maybe they’re hoping to help. ...Maybe they’re hoping to cut off the thing’s tail or the tip of its ear as a souvenir like the time they cut off Gumshoe’s bangs.
He acts without thinking.
The fight itself isn’t really important, but it ends like this: Gumshoe lying on his side on the grass, holding up his sleeve against his bloody nose, a trickle of something that’s part blood part spit dribbling down his chin, and his knuckles are raw. But at least now he’s alone. Well, almost. His body is curled around the kitten, still caught in the fence, still hissing and yowling. When he reaches for it the little bats away his hand and scratches his arm. It might be enough to make most people flinch back or retreat, but the other kids have given him worse. With slow shaky movements he grabs the cat and untangles its fur and its leg from the wire. The thing is trembling under his hands. Gumshoe drags the thing closer to his chest and envelops it in his big coat. He closes his eyes and feels the small thing huddle up close to him and begin to vibrate - purr - right then and there.
As if it knows it is safe.
Gumshoe had always known that he was bigger than the other kids, but that is the first time he realizes that his large stature can mean many things. Yes it can make him stand out, make him a target, but in that moment it acts as a wall, protecting this small creature from the outside world, providing it with a place of safety.
He hides it in one of his pockets and takes it home. They find the room in their budget to feed it somehow, and as a natural consequence it is many years before Gumshoe gets a piece of clothing that isn’t second hand again and the birthday trips to the mall stop until his mother finally gets a raise and promotion when he’s in high school.
The cat lives a long and healthy life, for a cat. But he found the thing when he was ten, and by the time he graduates from the academy and becomes a detective he’s had to mourn and bury the little thing in his mom’s backyard.
oOo
Mr. Edgeworth reminds Gumshoe, sometimes, of his cat. Back when he had first found it. Afraid and hurt and trying to hide that from the world by hissing and lashing out it’s claws at anything that gets too close to it. Of course Edgeworth doesn’t have claws and the man doesn’t hiss. Instead he puts on a cold veneer that covers him, shows who exactly Miles Edgeworth is.
Gumshoe isn’t sure why Mr. Edgeworth asks for him by name for cases. The early ones, before Mr. Edgeworth knew many people on the force, he had been given Gumshoe by luck of the draw. The meeting wasn’t that significant, Gumshoe doesn’t think, but Mr. Edgeworth requests him by name after that. Not that Gumshoe doesn’t have suspicions - maybe Mr. Edgeworth sees that sometimes Gumshoe is a little slow and thinks it’s easier to pull something on him. Maybe he just likes having a detective he’s seen work before instead of having to start from scratch with a new man every case. Maybe he just can only remember Gumshoe’s name because of how comical it is, considering his occupation.
Even if there is an ulterior motive, or something rotten at the core of the decision, Gumshoe quickly grows to enjoy working with Mr. Edgeworth. The prosecutor will bring him tea or coffee some mornings, usually day two into a trial. He uses words like ‘trust’ in a way that fills Gumshoe with pride and makes him want to live up to such a reverent word. He’s steel nerves and harsh words and Mr. Edgeworth gives him a letter and a small box of sweets for his birthday. Gumshoe can’t remember the last time someone other than his own mom remembered his birthday, much less got him something.
The rumors about Mr. Edgeworth leave something dark and hard in the pit of Gumshoe’s stomach.
They get worse with time. Every case after SL-9 there seems to be more and more reporters and gossipers waiting for Mr. Edgeworth after a trial, flooding the hallways, making even the lavish corridors of the courthouse seem cramped and small. Gumshoe can see the way that Mr. Edgeworth’s right hand, placed behind his back, flinches at each sound of a camera’s shutter.
Gumshoe does it on a whim six months after SL-9 after a long three day trial that left the courtroom a buzz of poisonous words and barbed comments. He saw the people with their cameras and their questions and he grabbed the edge of his coat, and like one might with a cloak or something, used it shield Mr. Edgeworth from the onlookers. Mr. Edgeworth isn’t exactly a short man, but Gumshoe is taller and bigger, and it’s easy for him to use his bulk to obscure Mr. Edgeworth’s thin and malnourished frame. Gumshoe almost tripped over the man then, as Mr. Edgeworth paused for a moment in surprise, and Gumshoe almost moved his arm out of the way, an apology already beginning to crawl out of his throat. And then Mr. Edgeworth just gave a nod, and proceeded on his way.
It becomes routine after that, for Gumshoe to shield Mr. Edgeworth after a trial. And he’s reminded time and time again of the small kitten one day in elementary school. He mutters down to where Mr. Edgeworth is of things completely unrelated to the rumors, filling the space under his coat with words about his dog Missile and the new noodle place a few blocks away.
Gumshoe has never seen Mr. Edgeworth cry.
There have been times. Rare, rare times. When the world seems too much for the man. When the accusations are loud. When there seems to be nowhere safe from prying eyes and venomous words. Those times when Mr. Edgeworth, under the protection of Gumshoe’s coat, may shiver and let out small noises like an injured animal, so quiet that Gumshoe doubts anyone except himself can hear them. Gumshoe lifts his head and looks the other way and gives Mr. Edgeworth all the privacy he needs beneath his coat, gently leads the man to his office where Mr. Edgeworth can close and lock the door and Gumshoe can stand guard outside and glare down anyone who might even think about knocking on it.
Gumshoe says with all honesty a year later to a man named Mr. Wright that he has never, with his own eyes, seen Mr. Edgeworth cry.