Summary: He hates these nights. When he’s stretched thin from chasing leads on three cases, when he’s trying to wrap things up as quickly as possible because he’s hyper conscious of what date is approaching, when a severe thunderstorm has driven him off the streets and back to the Manor.
There’s a sound like a gunshot. No, not like, it is. Loud enough to make Dick flinch. He spins around wildly, searching shadows, but he doesn’t understand - there hadn’t been, there isn’t, a shooter. There’s only him and Damian and- and-
There’s a weight in his hand. One that is sickeningly familiar. He flexes his fingers and there’s a clattering. Metal on concrete.
Gun on rooftop.
For the longest time, it’s that sound. The one that changed his life. The sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground after a fifty-foot fall. Catastrophically loud in the sudden, ringing silence of the tent. It’s the backing track to every nightmare for the first few years, jolting him awake with his heart in his throat and the smell of sawdust in the air.