Read the next chapter of Hurt Feelings!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Excerpt:
Stakeouts were supposed to be quiet—emphasis on supposed to. Tim’s wasn’t.
Everything had started out swimmingly, exactly like in The Gray Ghost, Pink Panther, or James Bond. Real espionage, Tim decided, required patience, bravery, and a really good tree. He had the first two. The third… was debatable.
From his perch high in the branches, Tim adjusted his plastic binoculars (originally from a cereal box, thank you very much) and peered across the property line at Wayne Manor.
Target: Clark Kent.
Subject: Batman’s boyfriend. Suspiciously nice. Always smiling, definitely hiding something.
Tim squinted harder and scribbled notes in his “field journal,” which was actually his math notebook.
Observation #47: Clark always wears glasses—criminal behavior. Observation #48: Bruce smiles when Clark’s around. Extremely weird.
The lights in the master bedroom flickered off, then on again. Suspicious. Very suspicious.
Tim adjusted the focus on his binoculars. (Okay, they didn’t actually have a focus, but still.) He was about to add “probable alien” when the branch beneath him gave a long, ominous creak.
Tim froze. The spy manual (that he had absolutely written himself) did not cover this scenario.
“Abort mission,” he whispered—right before the branch snapped and gravity made its move.
He yelped, arms pinwheeling, and landed with a spectacular THUD! in the open dumpster below.
Silence. Then… squish.
“Oh, gross,” he groaned, peeling a wet newspaper off his face. “I’m compromised.” Pain zinged up his wrist when he tried to push himself up. Probably not broken but likely sprained if past experience was anything to go by.
He tried climbing out, but the walls were too tall, and every time he reached for the rim, his wrist protested with a sharp, traitorous ache. His sneakers slipped against the metal, and he managed to climb halfway up before sliding back down into something that smelled like old cabbage and despair. Great. Just great. The world’s youngest detective, trapped in a dumpster.
After a few minutes of strategic thinking, he reassessed his options:
Yell for help. (Embarrassing.)
Wait for Alfred to find him. (Slow.)
Accept his new life as a trash panda. (Feasible.)
