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Title: Venn Bruce
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Bruce/J'onn. Mentions of Alfred, Jim, Clark, Dick, Tim, Selina, Lois, Diana, the League, Babs, Jason, the Joker ... most people that matter to Bruce, in other words.
Warnings: Not a lot of sense involved with this.
Summary: Musings on the mathematics of the heart and the self.
Wordcount: 2485
Venn Bruce
Bruce was not a man given to introspection. Contemplation, yes, self-analysis at critical junctures, certainly, but introspection? Not really. The depths of his own subconscious, as opposed to those of the criminals he hunted, the friends and family he supported ... well, it was not something he usually wanted to pry into too deeply. He could feel, at night, in the darkness, the edges of some of the things that lurked inside him, and dangerous though it may be to leave them untouched, he didn't want to examine them too closely.
But for all that, there were times, when life turned, when things changed around him, that he felt the need to see who he really was. Inside. Times when he needed to stop, to pull back from the faces he presented the world and rediscover who the hell he was.
The world had turned again, the change so powerful, so shattering, he trembled still to think of it. Tiny tremors, delicate little shudders through his powerful frame, and the form in his arms shifted, wrapped closer around him, the heart he held beside his own murmuring soundless reassurance to him. He smiled blindly, and tucked it closer, turning his thoughts inward again, feeling his partner follow him, watch over him. The warmth of that sensation, the safety it presented ... perhaps courage gained from the support of another was shallower than courage found alone, as he'd always thought, but even so, it was warmer, too.
So. Who was he? This man, this creature lying here, holding tight to his partner ... who was he? Bruce Wayne? Batman? Brucie? Even, heaven forbid, Matches? It could be any, he supposed. Though Matches was admittedly rather improbable, under the circumstances. At least as the driving force. But that was the key, wasn't it? Whichever was the driving force, weren't all of them present? Didn't all of them, in their way, inform his choices, shape his nature? A man of many parts, he was. A patchwork quilt.
No. Let's be scientific about this. Nothing so prosaic as patchwork. Call it ... alright. Call it a Venn diagram. For the purposes of this experiment in introspection, lets use that method. A graphic representation of a complex situation in simplified terms.
Venn Bruce.
He could feel himself smiling in the dimness, and lips pressed briefly against his own, warm and embracing, stealing the humour to hand back to him later, when he needed it. He whispered a thank you, very quietly, and stole back the returning smile.
Alright. This diagram. Three circles, he thought. Brucie, Batman, Matches. Because the center, the part where all overlapped ... that was Bruce. Bruce Wayne, the man he had been born, at least at the base. The center around which the others rotated, informing them and informed in turn. Bruce Wayne, who had changed over the course of his life, not least from interactions with the other parts of himself.
And what were those parts? What made up Brucie? What separated Batman from Matches? Not a lot, all things considered, he thought wryly. Considerable overlap on all fronts. But in essence ...
Brucie was the billionaire, the empty smile, the charm, the social part of Bruce Wayne. A shallow front, perhaps, but there were surprising depths to Brucie. A degree of empathy, to understand so clearly what was desired of him, how to play the expectations, how to grant a measure of social satisfaction to those he met. Brucie was capable of surprising insight, he knew, capable of reaching out in a way neither of his other fronts could. And there was also the fact that, in his way, Brucie was by far the freest part of him. The simplest, the most elemental. Drunk, charming and carefree, Brucie informed the part of him that lived beneath all the rigid control, the part that remembered being a small boy who laughed with ease. Perhaps Brucie's smile was only empty because it was the goal in itself, because nothing lived behind it to taint the simplicity of the expression.
Matches, on the other hand ... well, Matches was free too. Matches, the latecomer, a far smaller circle than the other two. But influential, oh yes! Never doubt it. Matches was all that was criminal about him. Matches was the part that channeled what darkness there was inside him that the Bat couldn't turn into clean anger. Matches was the lecherousness that should run beneath Brucie's charm, and didn't. Matches was the anger that couldn't be forged constructively as part of the Batman. Matches was the voice that whispered, so seductively, that all the parts of this world that he couldn't fix, all those failures that haunted him, would look so much better set alight to brighten the darkness. Matches, the criminal, the arsonist, called him to the destructive, cleansing flames. And yet ... Matches had a kind of sympathy to him, too. A pain at the ways of the world, a kind of basic understanding of the sheer, bloodyminded unfairness of it all. An essence of the everyman, a reminder of what he fought for as well as against.
And then the Batman. The largest, the most focused of all his fronts. The deepest part of the surface, the most integrated in its way. Clean, focused, a rage at the world narrowed and cooled into a weapon against the darkness. The scientific mind his father had begun to train, the grief he himself had fought to contain long enough to release in controlled bursts. All part of the Bat. Anger, violence, more controlled than Matches' manifestation. Empathy, more focused than Brucie's. Protectiveness, that rose straight from Bruce, straight from the center. But distant. The Bat was so distant, so remote, so controlled. Until someone cut through the outer layers, to the boundary where the Bat touched Bruce. The most ill-defended of all his internal boundaries. Because Batman was the part of him that had family, had friends. Batman was his life. So he lived inside that face the most, and faced most people in it. Batman, the most focused of his parts, and the most open.
There were places where they met, of course, where they overlapped. The Brucie Wayne Enterprises saw had more than a flavour of the Bat in him, and channeled more than a little Matches when playing drunk. Matches told the Bat how the criminal responded to interrogation, whispered of the other side to him, and Matches cornered and fighting showed something of his grimmer alter-ego. And Brucie was there, in the cracks, when Matches was safe and among friends, when the Bat had relaxed enough to tease across the airwaves with his family. And Bruce, of course, part of them all, the essence behind the distorted reflections they sent out into the world.
He was a complex man, he reflected. Whole, but segmented, less a unit and more a system of interlocking influences, of facets revealed and disguised fluidly from situation to situation, bleeding into each other as time went on and the part of him at the center of it all learned to understand each part of him better. The boundaries kept shifting, flowing between the parts of him, and he wondered sometimes, in the rare moments of introspection, where they would end up.
But of course it could not be predicted, much as he wished it could. Too many factors involved, and so many not even inside him, not his to control. All those other souls, those lines that arced into his heart, his center. People. His life had so many of them, and in his darker moments he wondered how that had happened. How had he let it become so big? All those people, all those friends, his family ... how could he protect them all? How had he been so irresponsible, to let them in when he knew he could never defend them? But ... they would not be denied. Not a one of them.
There was Alfred, of course. Always, Alfred. Deep inside the heart of him, his influence written upon all the facets, from Bruce on out. Even Matches had learned from Alfred, and there was a scary thought. He smiled again, felt his amusement echoed. His partner had a healthy respect for the Englishman. There were few who didn't. Even Bruce, in his heart of hearts, respected Alfred enough not to try and force a defense around him. Alfred had defended Bruce, right from the start. He was no man to be pitied, and no friend to be feared for. Whatever came, Alfred would face it proudly, with or without Bruce's help.
Though ... if he were honest, the same could be said of all of them. Of Dick, who had come first to Bruce, and through him to the Bat. Dick, whose laughter echoed in the deepest parts of him, whose bright unflinching spirit wrenched admiration from the most reluctant corners of this, Venn Bruce. He would die for that young man, every part of him, without a thought. And knew that Dick would never forgive him if he did. But that was alright. He would never forgive Dick if he'd tried the same.
He'd never forgiven Jason. Not for leaving. Not for dying. Bruce hadn't, anyway. Brucie had tried, had moved to shield, humour and lightheartedness. Matches, too, with the grim acceptance of the streets. But Bruce couldn't. Neither could the Bat. To this day. Jason was gone, and the hole he had left inside Bruce had yet to heal.
The same for all who'd fallen, whom he'd failed. Barbara, Tim, Selina. Diana. The League. Every mistake he'd made, and there had been so many ... and not even Matches, cool customer that he was, could deny the ache of responsibility. Even Matches cared, and that was surprising. Even criminals cared. Even the worst? But no. That, at least, was not his responsibility. The Joker's feelings were not his burden to bear, and never would be. He knew he had a tendency to hurt himself, but not even Batman would be so foolish.
At least not for long.
Selina, on the other hand ... so close, she was. An arrow arcing straight through the Bat, circling Brucie coquettishly, Bruce her only target. She had come close, so close, to touching every part of him. So close that he had fought, strove to block her at every turn, defending Bruce from her touch even as Batman fell to her passion and Brucie delighted in her charms. He had feared her, deep inside, feared the power of her, the fragility, the nearness. He had feared her, fought her, and ... and in the end he had lost her. He had found someone who had touched him without thought, straight through everything to the core, and Selina had stood no chance. But she was still there, inside his heart, and even now he would run to her defense.
He felt his partner reaching, felt the touch upon his heart in echo of the earlier thought, in echo of the first time their hearts had met. He felt the understanding, the reassurance, and the warmth inside was not limited to Bruce alone. It filled him entirely, spreading in search of that other heart, seeking to warm his love in return, to offer back the incredible gift he had been given. His partner smiled, his heart glowing softly with joy, accepting the gift gladly. Bruce hugged him close, pulled him near, and smiled deeply. He hoped, one day, Selina would find something like this. She deserved it.
All of them did. All his friends, all his battered family. Jim, who had fought so long, lost so much. Jim, who loved his daughter beyond reason. Jim, who had given Gotham everything and more, who had stood beside Batman from first to last. Jim, who had only ever seen the one of his parts, but who was cherished and admired in all.
Clark, who had found it already, who had found Lois. Clark, who had had the courage long ago to make a life that could include this, could hold such love. Clark, who had seen straight through the Bat to Bruce beneath, and had offered without thought everything he could give to help him. Clark, who had given him the courage to see this day, to be here with his love. Bruce smiled. Lois had but to say the word, and anything she asked was hers, for showing Clark what he in turn had showed Bruce. Not that she'd ever ask.
Demand, possibly.
Tim, who had lost so much. Tim, who had come to the family through the Bat and not through Bruce. Tim, who had learned too early, and too irrevocably, of the pain and cruelty of the world. Tim, whom he feared for most, and whom he was most uncertain with. Because he understood Tim. He saw the Batman in him, saw Bruce, young and grieving, save that Tim was so much more. So much deeper ran his hurt, and for all that he understood it, no part of Bruce knew how to help it. Because he had never found the cure for his own pain, save now, save here, and he could not offer that to Tim. He could not find someone to love the boy as he was now loved. He could only offer his own pale, strained caring, deep as it was within him, and hope that someday the boy would find what had been offered to Bruce so freely.
"He will," whispered the voice of his love in his heart. "And your love is not so pale, not so unwelcome as that. But it threatens him, as all who loved you threatened you. He is broken, and must defend the pieces. Only time can show how to overcome that, can engender the trust to let another in. You know that. We know that."
Bruce turned fully, then, at last. Turned to face the quiet red eyes that watched him sadly, to face the fluid, facetted creature that lay in his arms. He looked at him, and his heart reached out, his soul, every facet of his being. Bruce, Brucie, Batman. Even Matches. He reached from the well of love within him, out to his partner. And J'onn reached back. Martian Manhunter, Detective Jones ... all of him. Every part.
"Yes," he whispered, quietly, inside and out. "We do."
And while Brucie chuckled wryly, and the Manhunter frowned curiously, and Matches grumbled, and John Jones shook his head with a cynical and hopeful smile, and Batman wondered absently what you got when you put two Venn Diagrams together ... Bruce and J'onn curled together in their bed and in their minds, and smiled at the future and everything it brought.
It was only long after they were asleep that Batman reached a conclusion that satisfied him.
One plus one is one.
Well, no-one had ever said the mathematics of the heart had to make sense.
