The Bruce Wayne of 10 years ago would never have called himself a man of faith, let alone a man of the cloth. After his parents died, he dove deep into his anger and rage and spent a lot of time trying to rationalize it and find the person who had done it. His friend, Oliver Queen, eventually coxed him into coming to church and that's when it all changed.

First it was attending the weekly sermons then it was holidays, then he was helping the church-led charities and making sizeable donations to the local houses of God, and then he decided to become a priest. It was rigorous work. He had to go from someone known for his playboy attitude and rampant drinking to a celibate man who's closest encounters with alcohol all involved the Eucharist.

He enjoyed it, though. Preaching, sharing the word of God to his community. He felt like he was making a difference, giving people faith, teaching them that they'll always have a second chance in the eyes of the Lord. He did house calls too. Some were meaningless while others were genuinely lifechanging.

One particular winter evening, he got a call from one of the older women in town saying that her neighbor was a deviant. Apparently she had seen the poor woman stumble up the steps to her house and pass out right at the door. Apparently she slept outside that night in the cold. It was a miracle she didn't freeze to death.

Bruce knocked on the door, fully dressed in his typical attire, black slacks and button up with the collar, Bible in hand, a small smile on his face.

The woman opened the door, disheveled. She looked like hell, in all honesty. Not that Bruce would ever tell her that for a multitude of reasons. In all honesty, despite the rumpled look of a woman who was painfully hungover, she was actually really beautiful. Bruce mentally shook that thought away before speaking.

"Hello, I'm Father Bruce. I got a call from your neighbor, Mrs. Lerner. She said you might need some guidance?" His voice was kind, gentle, he didn't want to sound judgemental.