AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've been having this story stew on my mind for quite a while now. My love for Batman has resurfaced, and considering I also love Marvel I decided to go ahead start this one story. After I finish two other fics I do believe I may be leaving the fanfic community for a while. I wanted to write at least one more good fic that challenges me as a writer. This is an inspiration from the authoress MissMilkMaid. I read her fic "Wolverine in Arkaham" and also another she has been working on "Wolverine in Gotham." Very, very awesome writing.

Leave me a review please if this story intrigues you enough for me to continue it.

Chapter 1

There is not much to remember him by.

Bruce could only remember how surreal the world around him felt. The officer in front of him talking soothingly to him. Trying to get him to eat, accept some juice, coffee maybe? How about hot chocolate? Then Alfred came speaking quietly to the officer. Thanking him for how thoughtful he had been to care for the young master Wayne.

When they got home Bruce just went to his room. He ignored Alfred calling him and fell into bed. He slept all night and the next day. He didn't come out to retrieve food. When he heard his butler calling he only pulled the blankets around him tighter. Refusing to leave his sanctuary of sleep. When he slept he dreamt of his Mom and Dad. In the dreams Zorro would come out and beat the bad man. Taking his gun away as he fled off into the night. Everything was happy. Everything was perfect.

His parents were alive in the dream. When he awoke they were dead.

It wasn't until he heard a gruff, unfamiliar voice near his ear he struggled to draw himself from feet. Bruce muttered something and rolled back over not wanting to be disturbed. Suddenly strong arms slipped underneath the covers easily lifting him in the air. Yelping Bruce began to flail wondering who it was. His blanket tangled around catching in his legs preventing him from escape. For two minutes he struggled and yelled then suddenly he found himself plunked down in a chair. His blanket yanked away allowing him to see again.

Standing there dumbstruck was Alfred. A plate of food and a glass of juice in front of Bruce. When he looked up the first thing he noticed was the gruff man with a large brim hat. A strip of crocodile skin along the top of the hat studded with crocodile teeth. He had sideburns and a five o'clock shadow. Blue eyes burned like two hot coals as the man gazed down at him. To Bruce the man looked like he had just stepped out of an old Western movie. The only thing missing were his guns and a horse.

"Here's the kid. Now look Bruce, would your parents want you sleeping all day in bed?"

Bruce said nothing. He just hung his head staring at his food. For a moment the man seemed angry then calmed down. He sighed as he knelt down next to the table. Reaching out to put a hand on Bruce's shoulder. The palm was rough and calloused, and when he gazed at the man Bruce saw the muscles beneath the shirt.

"Look kiddo, I know it hurts. Feels like there's a big hole where your parents used to be, right? Like it ain't never gonna get better? You just wanna die and don't want to keep going on without 'em."

Bruce said nothing but he slightly inclined his head. Alfred stared his eyes wide as he watched the scene unfolded before him.

"I ain't gonna lie to ya. It's gonna keep hurtin. Your heart is going to reach a point where it feels like it's gonna burst and you just wanna tear it outta yer chest. You want to tear it out, stomp on it, and then cast it out all over again just to have something to do. To somehow ease the pain."

"As time goes on that wound of yours will begin to heal. It never really gets better, not really, but you learn to live with it. Your parents are gone, kiddo. I can't bring them back and neither can anyone else. But they still loved you regardless. Remember that. Don't taint their memory by wishing you were dead too."

With that said the stranger got up and walked away. He exchanged no words with Alfred at all only disappeared from the kitchen. Bruce blinked as he stared down at his food. Then, with shaking hands he reached out for his fork and started took a bite. It tasted like ashes in his mouth so he took a sip of juice.

He ate until his there were nothing but a few scraps of food left on his plate. Alfred came to him then and took the dirty dishes. Glancing worriedly at his young master quietly asking him if he would like anything else. Bruce shook his head, jumped off the chair, and walked away.

Within an hour he had bathed, dressed, and now found himself alone in the library. Well, not really alone. The stranger was there. The man had retreated to an armchair in the corner near the window. He read a book with a cabin on the front surrounded by woods. Bruce walked over to him numbly stopping near the man's feet. His cowboy hat rested on the table near his hand along with a cup of coffee. Steam rising up from it. The stranger's eyes flickered up. He set the book down and gave Bruce his undivided attention.

"What's your name?" Bruce blurted out. He had meant to ask him a different question. Yet the man hardly seemed offended by the question. He had jet black hair which had been slicked back. It rose into two points however on either side of his head almost like horns. Not enough to be truly noticeable, but an odd quirk. There were no wrinkles on his face. He had to be at least forty years old.

"I go by a lot of names, but you can call me Patch."

"Does Alfred know who you are?"

"Sorta, I'm a distant relative of your fathers. Alfred doesn't like me to much. I'm a 'unsocialized heathen with a stench enough to wake the dead and even worse manners' according to him. I accidentally tracked mud into the house when I walked up here and apparently didn't stick my pinky out when he invited me to tea." Patch grunted. Bruce stared at him wondering where this strange man had come from.

"Why did you do that?"

"Track mud into the house? It was raining outside, still is."

"Didn't you drive up here?"

"Obviously not if I walked." Patch pointed out. Bruce blinked nodding his head. He came closer to Patch wondering who this man was. Where had he come from? He talked to Bruce as if he were an adult.

Then without warning Bruce burst into tears. He had not cried when his parents had died. Had not shed a tear when he had gone into isolation in his room. Yet right there in front of this man he had just met the dam burst. No matter how hard he tried he could not stop. Patch didn't even bother to set his book outside. He simply got up and reached out for Bruce letting his book fall to the floor. Pulling the child into his lap and sheltering him in his strong arms.

Bruce curled up clinging to the man's shirt. Crying as he buried his head into the man's chest. The shirt was still damp from his walk in the rain. Patch held onto him tightly muttering over his head. Making soothing sounds in his throat as he tried to reassure the young man.

That was Bruce's first memory of the man named Patch.