Work Text:
“Thanks for working with me and not handing me over to the police or something.” Ned said one morning.
Emerson shrugged. “Gets me lots of money, doesn’t it?”
--
Emerson Cod was five years, seven months, eight days and two minutes old when his Mama taught him the beauty of truth.
“Don’t you dare lie to me again, Emerson!” she said. “Or at least do it better.”
--
“Why haven’t I become a storybook author instead of a detective?” Emerson asked the girl named Chuck after they’d once more escaped certain death. “It’d be much less dangerous. I don’t think even the money’s worth it.”
Chuck frowned. “Because you like to know everybody’s secrets?”
“Yeah,” muttered Emerson, “probably the secrets.”
--
Six months and twenty-two days after starting his own PI firm, Emerson Cod caught his first criminal. When he felt unexpected warmth in his chest that evening, he decided his self-knitted sweater vest was too warm for the season.
--
“I hate keeping all those secrets,” Emerson complained to Olive. She quickly set down his slice of finest three-berry-pie.
“Secrets? Which secrets?”
“Never mind. Just remind me – why don’t I quit this job and stop hanging out with you crazy people?”
“Because we serve the best pie in the country?”