So… Jason Todd is officially canon. The Young Justice fandom is currently exploding. And I am going to vent all of my feelings through Fanfiction. If you have a tumblr account, feel free to post a link to this (as long as you credit me), because I really think they need as much Jason as they can get.

Nightwing's POV

You are so young, when you lose your family. You watch, frozen with shock and disbelief and terror, as they spiral towards the ground. You are unable to turn your head away as their bodies slam into the dirt, you can't even bring yourself to close your eyes. It's the sound, though, that will replay itself over and over in your mind for years to come. The sound of human bodies crunching against the earth. You hear that sound and you are suddenly lost in a tidal wave of anguish and fear and you can barely move your legs as you clamber down the ladder. Everything is a blur of colors and tears and apologetic faces and flashing ambulance lights

And then Bruce Wayne appears in front of you and suddenly, through the haze of grief, you can think again. There is something calming about him. You don't think twice when he asks you to move into his home.

While has never truly replaced your parents, you've both been through so much pain and confusion and laughter and terror that you can't help loving each other, on some level. He never tells you he loves you, though, not openly, because he's The Batman, and to acknowledge his emotions would mean acknowledging that somewhere, under that cowl, there is still a human.

Eventually, you move out. Leave the nest, to use the whole bird motif. He accepts it right away, gives you a curt nod to acknowledge your words. He always knew that this day would come. He's not happy that you are moving to Blüdhaven, he doesn't like the idea of you dealing with that city all on your own, when you aren't even eighteen yet, but he says nothing. He pretends to accept it. You've learned how to read his face, though, and you can see that little hint of pain in his eyes as you begin your hunt for an apartment.

And then he misses you. You can tell, even over this distance. You miss him, too, of course, but every child has to grow up, and you can't spend the rest of your life in his shadow. It's hard, though, imagining just Bruce and Alfred, alone in Wayne Manor. The image doesn't feel right in your mind.

So, you aren't altogether surprised when he adopts another boy. Jason Todd. A street kid. At first, it takes everything you have to conceal that bitter jealousy which laps at the edges of your mind. He's just replacing you, plucking some random kid out of Gotham and using him to fill the void you have left behind. Robin is your identity, even if you've abandoned it, and he thinks he can just hand it over to someone else? He thinks he can replace his surrogate son? The kid even looks like you. That inky black hair, that small-yet-powerful frame, that all-knowing smirk. You wouldn't be surprised if you peeled off his mask and found a pair of bright blue eyes staring back at you.

But then you travel to Gotham, and you meet him, and all of that anger simply crumbles away because Jason is different, so different to you. He's reckless and sharp and fearless and fast thinking and he can't follow an order to save his life. And you see the grief, and the anger, which is still buried deep inside of him, and you see the look in his eyes whenever somebody mentions his parents, and you feel nothing but affection for him.

You laugh with him. You argue with him. You fall victim to his countless pranks. When he messes up, and he messes up a lot, you're always there. And then somehow, somewhere along the line, he stops being that-other-kid-that-Bruce-adopted and he becomes your brother. Your stupid, crazy little brother, who is never afraid enough. And you love him, but you never tell him that, because to acknowledge emotion is to acknowledge weakness.

And then, before you know it, he's gone. Taken from you. You can barely remember the night your parents died. It's all a blur of faces and screams and bodies twisted into sickening, unnatural shapes. But you remember the day you lost Jason. You saw him, that very morning. You were slouched over the Batcomputer, sipping a hot chocolate and smirking as he desperately hunted for his utility belt.

'Didn't Bruce order you to keep it handy at all times?' you asked. You tried to keep the amusement out of your voice, because the kid was getting genuinely frustrated, but you couldn't resist a bit of light teasing. He threw you a dirty look before resuming his search, and you turned your interest back to the computer. You don't know how much time passed, it was probably only minutes, but suddenly Jason was giving a yell of triumph and hastily clipping the belt over his costume. He gave you a quick wave as he made a beeline for the plane, and you half-heartedly returned it. You were tired, too tired to watch your brother leap into the Batplane, too tired to wave goodbye to him properly.

And then somehow a whole twenty hours passed and you were back in Blüdhaven and Alfred was calling you and he only had to say two words, Master Richard, for you to know. There is something unmistakable about the voice of grief. It's certainly become familiar to you.

You watch Bruce shut down, cut you and everybody else out. You watch a single tear slide silently down Alfred's face. You spend hours staring at the grave, completely stunned, unable to process the fact that Jason is gone and you are never going to see him again. And you just keep clinging to that one, thin strand of hope, the one that countless psychiatrists had drilled into your head after the Graysons' deaths. It will get better.

Days pass, months pass, almost a whole year passes, and the sharp pain that is Jason's memory subsides into a dull, ever-present ache. Bruce starts talking to you again. Barbara finds out about Nightwing, and suddenly the weight upon your shoulders feels that much lighter. Slowly, things do get better, and eventually you can't help but chuckle whenever you reach his grave. You remember the time he started eating food with his fingers at one of Bruce's charity events, and the entire room looked at him like he had killed someone. You remember watching and cackling sadistically as he struggled with his bow tie for two hours. You remember walking into the Batcave, climbing onto your motorcycle, and suddenly realizing that the tires had mysteriously vanished. Jason isn't a painful memory anymore, not for you.

And now you're watching Tim, as he flies through Gotham alongside Bruce. So different to you. So mercifully different to Jason. Tim follows orders religiously. He has to map everything out, formulate a battle plan for every scenario. He never taunts the enemy, he never races into action and he's never careless or reckless or violent.

You find him, one day, alone in the Batcave. He stares silently, motionlessly, at the case. You can see his reflection perfectly as he runs his eyes over Jason's costume. He does not acknowledge your presence. He does not make a sound as you stride over and come to a stop next to him.

For the first time, you feel almost relieved that Bruce isn't here. Because surely, if he had been, he would have whirled around, strode out of the room, once again consumed by that guilt. But Bruce isn't here, it's just you and Tim. Barbara, too, you suddenly notice, as she falls into line beside you. The three of you look like a trio of soldiers, standing shoulder to shoulder, staring straight ahead.

Minutes pass. You feel oddly relaxed. This is the first time, really, that any of you have been allowed to properly mourn him. To acknowledge that he did exist, that he was a part of this legacy. The silence stretches out, but none of you attempts to break it. You are all lost, totally absorbed in your own thoughts.

Jason was killed in an explosion. You know that he might not have had time to register what was happening. He may never have seen the bomb. A small part of you, though, hopes that he did know, if only for an instant, that he was going to die. You like to imagine that he got a chance to see his life flash before his eyes. At least then, in the last seconds of his life, he would have had something to be proud of.