Author's Note: I personally never considered Jason a bad Robin. When out in the field, his performances were of a competent standard, the majority of the time anyway. The complex, warring relationship he and Bruce possessed also showed how many father-son bonds inevitably strain under the weight of adolescence. Therefore, the next few stories I wish to publish on this site will be Jason and Bruce orientated, during his tenure as Robin.

Always start at the end and work your way back...

End Credits

The service is due to commence in just over an hour. I imagine it will be a short, quiet and clean affair, given the small numbers attending. Jason's life was too brief to cause many ripples, something I find myself strangely glad of. His passing will not betray my secret. The thought is cold and void of sentiment, but serves to remind me that my mission is not over. Jason's death, at the hands of a violent, irreproachable criminal, only highlights the importance of Batman's continued existence. I find myself clinging to this idea fiercely as I stand alone in the chapel.

The service itself will be a closed casket, conducted outside in order to hasten the burial and therefore the finish. In the chapel, however, the casket is fully open. My eyes have not left him for almost forty minutes. It is impossible for me to look away and not see him, so I may as well actually look at him. Jason deserves that much. For all our arguments, our…differences of opinion, we were still supposedly in this together. We were partners, the dynamic duo, as the tabloids named us. But we were never friends. We were never family. It was not for want of trying, from both parties; I know the boy tried desperately to conform to my ideals, to the life of my private world. I, too, tried to make our relationship less alien for Jason's sake. It would appear, in the end, our continued efforts and disappointments in one another are what ultimately drove us apart. Regardless of our mutual difficulties, we did not deserve this. This final chapter of our shared history, his death and my grief, will never settle. I will never acquit myself of this burden, never find solace for my conscience and will never be whole again.

I am stood directly beside the casket and looking down on him. His is not a soul at peace. His face is still marred by bruises and his expression is one that belong on men of troubled sleep, a sort of half-frown. I would not let them embalm him. I would not let them cosmetically alter him in any way. There was no autopsy, no invasion of privacy, whatsoever. Alfred washed and dressed him; I would not allow anybody else to even touch him. It has nothing to do with my secret; Jason, in his current state, is unable to divulge anything of merit. I would not permit foreign hands on him because he does not deserve that kind of treatment. He does not deserve to be drained like some sort sieve and then filled like a balloon. Such farcical measures at preservation for my benefit are unnecessary and more importantly disrespectful. His bruises are not required to disappear to fool me into feeling less guilt. I want to remember him as he was. I need to remember the manner of his death. I need to hold on to my feelings when I found him, hold on to the intense, indescribable agony I experienced when checking his pulse, and the slow, lingering sorrow as I carried him home for the final time. Joker will die. The remainder will pay their way in blood. I realize now there is no other way. A hard-line means a harsh approach. Sometimes, it even means a fatal approach.

My hand is suddenly on the boy's still chest. A moment later, it is inside his jacket pocket. Jason must take nothing of his tenure as Robin with him. Alfred is too sentimental to be trusted. Searching all the boy's pockets yields a photograph of myself, him and Alfred, one of his mother, Sheila Haywood, as well as one compressed batarang and a brief note. I am disappointed in the old man. He knows that such a tragedy should be no excuse for compromise of security. I remove the batarang, placing it in my trouser pocket, whilst replacing the photographs in his breast pocket. I then regard the note, expecting Alfred's handwriting. It is not. Jason wrote this. As soon as I read it, I feel myself breaking inside.

Bruce, this partnership is gonna end in tears, maybe for both of us. With that in mind, I've decided to quit. Thank you for everything. Peace out.

Jason.

No doubt written in the minutes proceeding our discovery of his real mother. I do not begrudge him for wanting a better life. Even as I reach down to replace the note, I still will not cry. I know that, were I to start, I would never again find the strength to stop. I have not suffered loss so profound since my parents. This boy's death, a direct result of my involvement in his life, will haunt me to my own grave. Because my selfishness and ego pushed me to find a new partner. I wanted someone to worship me, as Dick once had, and to make me feel good about myself. Jason was not ready to be Robin when I gave him the mantle. It was never a question of his drive, skill or application; Jason proved himself to be a more than capable asset to my mission. It was his mentality, his approach to the mission that made him unsuitable for the role. He embraced violence, not as a tool or a weapon or even a last resort. The boy saw violence as the only method, the sole solution to our problems. Given a further period of time to adjust his view of the world, he may have understood my concerns. As it stands, all such theorising is immaterial; Jason is dead, I am responsible and all Gotham hangs on the edge of oblivion.

"Master Bruce?"

"Yes Alfred?"

"The casket will need to be moved in a short while. Perhaps it would be best if you came and waited in the car, until the service begins."

"No. Tell them to wait for another ten minutes."

"With all due respect, Sir, you have already postponed the service twice today. It was supposed to take place four hours ago."

"Ten minutes, Alfred."

"Sir."

I wait for the old man to leave the chapel completely. When I am certain I will not be disturbed, I do as I had intended to hours earlier, but lacked the courage to act. With careful hands I pick Jason up and carry him to the front row of pews. The boy is limp like a rag doll as I sit down and place him in my lap. His head falls listlessly on my shoulder only by virtue of physics. My arms pull him tight against me and I begin to cradle him. This is how I should say goodbye. I should be in a silent place of reflection, not a war zone. There should be no masks or circumstances to hide behind. I should not concern myself with missions or logistics. I should just be with him. I should talk to him. So I begin without any hesitation.

"I'm sorry, Jason. I was supposed to save you at the last moment. You were supposed to be saved. I should have saved you. You should be alive." I pause to run a hand through his perfectly combed hair. He smells like soap; Alfred did a remarkable job. "I guess my luck ran out. I knew I would never outrun death forever…but it was supposed to be MY death, not yours." I stop. I am holding a dead child in my arms, not as The Batman, but as Bruce Wayne. Suddenly, the guilt is ten times worse than before. I am a billionaire with resources beyond normal men; could I really not control a single unruly teenager? I stare into the distance whilst squeezing the boy harder, conscious more than ever of the cold fact he can no longer object to this prolonged, intimate contact. Apologies should relieve the anxiety, ease the responsibility, but not this one. Because this apology is meaningless. Jason cannot hear these words of shame. He cannot hear anything anymore. This is all my fault and mine alone. In a sense, I have finally taken a life.

I stand up and carry the boy back to his box. I lay him down gently. My hands hover over the lid. I look at him one last time. "Goodbye Jason." The lid is closed firmly. An hour later, Jason is in the ground, beside his mother, and the service is over. Alfred escorts me to the car as the rain begins to fall. Dick is in the back. I did not even notice his presence today. I sit beside him and the old man starts the engine. Moments later we are in motion heading for the manor.

"Bruce, are you okay?" Dick asks me. His voice is reedy and a quick glance of his face shows he has been crying quite severely. I have yet to shed a tear of note. My face is blank as I answer him.

"No, Dick. I doubt I ever will be again."