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Out of sight, out of mind

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Ric didn't know what he expected. It wasn't as if he felt good about his situation or not anymore.

He just... being part of a team of superheroes that were kinda but not really impersonating your superhero alter ego…

He didn't know what to feel, exactly. Rick didn't feel like they were impersonating him, though (not like when the second Robin arrived, poor Jay). He had been fine before all this train wreck. He had been content to just let it go, to let the burden of Nightwing fell into another's shoulders. Maybe he shouldn't have ignited the secret bunker.

Or maybe it was one of the best decisions of his life.

The best one he could remember, anyway.

He didn't wish that feeling of oppression, of looking always at your sides and your back, wondering when and where the next crime was going to be committed, how to stop it, how to get away. Weapons, escape routes, moves, targets, victims…

But it was a rush. He had been wondering why people got into tights and just went out, willing to get the (crowbarexplosionswordlungebombbullet) hit for a complete stranger. But seeing people getting hurt instead of you, when you could have done something. Seeing panic and fear, when you knew you could help and make a difference, however small…

It felt addictive. He didn't want to stop.

And so, he didn't.

He punched, hit, kicked and tied up. One by one, everyone fell to him and his team. Sapienza looked at him very closely, analyzing for flaws or errors that would become the reason he needed to kick the "civilian" out of this… Unofficial branch of police force. He was going to find none, of course. Ric was just that good.

Although maybe the correct thing to say would be that Dick Grayson had been just that good. Semantics.

That didn't help the churning feeling Ric felt every time he thought too much about it. His muscle memory hadn't failed him even once, no reason for it to start now. He wasn't afraid, never afraid, but that didn't mean he couldn't worry.


That whole paranoia and brooding thing didn't have anything to do with him anymore. He was perfectly fine now, a whole team of cops and a firefighter tougher than them all at his side.

And so, he went on.

He didn't stop to think about how the feeling of falling felt so much like flying, pretended he didn't notice the red head he usually passed by on his morning routine (Barbara, was it?), ignored how Bea's hair seemes just so dark and curly as opposed to-

To what, exactly?

(Vibrant red curls almost like fire, almost straight orange waves that left him breathless, a bright cyan color that never failed to catch his attention, black waves in so much white skin accompanied by so much guilt-)

He waved to Mr. Pennyworth in his way out of the café, not knowing why exactly that feeling of amusement filled him but shrugging it off and enjoying it anyways. Picking up the newspapers and seeing The Nightwings in big bold letters in the front page made him feel so…

So proud, justified and independent.

Ric Grayson was addicted to that feeling in particular. Independence. He was his own man, always had been and always would be. That was the way of the circus and in no way, shape or form was he letting a white rich billionaire to tell him how he should live. Fending for himself, feeding the old lady's cats from the attic in the centre of Bludhaven, crashing at the mansions in the outskirts of the city or just sleeping in his cab.

Not only he had the job of a cab driver anymore. Guess saving a group of wannabe superheroes cops had a lot of perks. Working for the cops as intelligence sure was paying off, he would be able to get Bea out to that restaurant she always eyed while passing.

And sure, there was a supervillain out for his blood after exposing his immunity to his fucked up drug or whatever, but life was good.

Beggars can't be choosers. And that applied twice to him, he thought while touching the scar in his head.

Yeah, life was good.