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There's a lot someone can tell you without actually saying anything. Cass had been the one to really teach this to Stephanie, in the quiet nights spent alone where they don't make a single sound between each other, but hours of stories are shared.
Cass shows her how to tell when someone is trying to ask for help without being able to formulate the right words. She teaches her how to find out if someone's hiding an injury that's deeper than skin.
(Stephanie knows better than to ask why those were the examples Cass was willing to share.)
But Stephanie thinks she's always known how to do this, deep down — reading people without listening to them.
She remembers that her mother has a nasty scar across her knee that she never talks about. It never healed properly, and sometimes, Crystal Brown needs to sit down with her leg elevated on their coffee table, head tipped back as she grimaces through the short burst of pain. She used to take painkillers for them. She tries not to take any sort of pills if she can help it, anymore.
Stephanie can remember being as young as five, gently massaging the muscle and skin in hopes of helping her mother through it. What her little hands did was probably nothing in comparison to what relief the pills had brought, but Stephanie sees that her smiles are the same either way.
"Thank you sweetheart," she'd whisper, eyes half closed and jaw tense, "Thank you."
Later on, came Tim. There's a lot about Tim that no one deserves to know about, maybe not even her, but he's always been too small to hold a heart of his size just to himself. Sometimes he closes away though, not in the same way Bruce does, but it's similar enough.
Bruce's shut down is so obvious it might as well be a bright neon sign above his head that reads DON'T TALK TO ME RIGHT NOW STEPHANIE. Tim's is far more subtle, less neon sign and more gentle steps backwards until he's hidden away in the corner of a room, hands trembling and unable to grasp anything.
After all, Tim had been sick once too. Not like her mother, but he carries the damage with him in his bones just like she does.
Stephanie used to hold his hand when Tim's fingers were too numb to move on their own. Sometimes, when she catches him trying to hide his shaking palms beneath his cape, she'll reach for his hands and hold them quietly. It doesn't mean what it used to mean. It's almost better now.
Jason was a little trickier, because Stephanie knew exactly what his story was without ever needing to hear it.
It's a well known verse by now; the Robin who tried to leave the nest earlier than he could handle and came crashing down in a heap of broken bones and debris. The people who've recounted the story to her always make it sound like there's a lesson hidden in there somewhere, and maybe there is, just not one people like her tend to follow.
But then, the rare times Jason's not only in the Cave, but in the Cave without his helmet, is when Stephanie sees the sort of story she understands.
"You sure you know how to fix this thing?" Jason grumbles, leaning against the wall opposite the training mat, pretending to be focused on the sparring match between Damian and Cass.
Tim is sat many feet away by the workbench, and the distance would be a little funny if Stephanie wasn't sat protectively between the two of them. Tim holds grudges better than anyone she knows, but he's not so good at acting like it. Stephanie is.
He's fiddling with Jason's helmet, the back control panel open with a bunch of wires of different colours sticking out, "Yes. You said it was the audio that wasn't working? Is that just outside noise or comm lines?"
"Both, everything just sounds under water," Jason shrugs, following Damian's high kick with critical eyes, "Oi squirt, you tryna pull a muscle kicking like that?"
Damian dodges a punch from Cass easily before turning to Jason with a poisonous scowl, "I did not ask you for advice, Todd."
Jason puts both hands in the air in mock surrender, gaining a small smirk from Cass, "I was just going to say try leaning back some more next time. Distribute the weight evenly instead of it all on your back leg."
Damian opens his mouth like he's going to disagree, but shuts it quickly, eyes narrowed in thought. Stephanie's rather proud of herself that she doesn't burst out laughing when the kid looks a little flushed, huffing as he turns back to face Cass, "Again, Cassandra!"
Cass' smile grows as he falls back into a fighting stance, nodding in acceptance.
Jason doesn't try to hide his laugh like Stephanie, because unlike her, he doesn't seem to care if Damian likes him or not. It's when he does this, a wide and toothy shit-eating grin at Damian's pink ears, does Stephanie notice he can't open his mouth the whole way.
There's a jagged white scar across the left side of his face, crossing over the corner of lip and making the skin around it hard and stiff. He's got loads of them dotted around his face, probably more under the long black shirts and jackets he's always wearing, but that one stands out the most.
Maybe Stephanie's just a pessimist, because when Jason lifts his head slightly, the scar almost looks like a J.
And well. That's something.
Still smiling absently at the sparring rematch taking place, Damian obviously taking Jason's advice and noticing a clear difference, Stephanie rubs a hand across the side of her arm.
Lucky for her, the placement is just convenient enough that it's hidden under most short sleeve shirts and dresses. That, and the scars themselves aren't as deep as Jason's to withstand the cruel humour of the Lazarus Pit.
It's a messy scribble of slashes almost touching her shoulder blade. The scars are pale enough to blend in with any other skin blemish.
But to her, it looks like tiny little BMs. Branding. A reminder of the Robin that left the nest before she could handle it and found herself strung up, ripped apart and shot by a man who found it funny.
She must have let something show on her face, since Jason's eyes flick over to hers, curious. He doesn't say anything, and neither does Stephanie.
They're not at that stage where she can ever look at him and say I know your story. The version only your body knows. She doesn't think they'll ever become friends to the stage in which she can say I want to tell you my story too.
But at least here, in this short exchange of half-suspicious and half-interested glaring does Jason not even flinch when her eyes flick to the scar on his cheek. He just looks away after another beat passes, back to smiling at the way Cass swipes under Damian's feet and lands him on his back.
Without looking up, and with one hand still on Jason's helmet, Tim reaches out to gently rub Stephanie's arm. She's not sure if he's doing it because he can tell she's wound herself up about something out of her control, or if he's just feeling graciously friendly.
Either way, Stephanie is glad he's sitting on the side of her unscarred arm.
Wayne Manor is a strange place. Not because Stephanie's, like, sixty percent sure it's haunted by Bruce's great-uncle (his portrait is hung next to the downstairs bathrooms, so maybe they deserve his undead anger) — but because it's one of the oldest places in Gotham but filled with the most futuristic tech out there.
Such as the newly filtered, heated and seasonal swimming pool. Apparently it's a small project Bruce's been working on as Brucie Wayne, a welcome gift for his new foster son. She thought it was a little ridiculous, until Tim told her Dick had received a customised couple-thousand dollar D&D set and Jason got the entire Wayne library renovated and extended. It makes Tim's state of the art gaming room cower in comparison.
(Later, Cass will tell her how Bruce had redone one of the sitting rooms into a dance studio, with heated flooring and moving mirror walls. Damian doesn't hide his glee at all when he starts showing Steph his priceless jewel encrusted blade sets.)
So, Duke receiving a robotic pool as a welcome gift isn't all that surprising. What is surprising is when he invites her to his pool party in the middle of Gotham's heatwave.
Truth be told, Cass had already invited her. Even Bruce had been hinting that she should show up to the Manor on this specific Tuesday during summer break — but to have Duke reach out to invite her himself was an awfully sweet gesture. If the fact that Bruce wouldn't also be there supervising, she might have brought the booze.
Instead, Cass tells her there'll be freshly made watermelon juice and mango smoothies (godbless Alfred Pennyworth), which is all the convincing Stephanie needs to show up with a towel and her orange and yellow swimsuit.
The garden is a sight to behold, far more lively than anything she would have expected. Tim had told her Duke was also inviting a couple of his friends, but actually seeing two kids around Duke's age backflip off the diving board into the pool was still a surprise. Dick's loud and energetic laughter howls along with the cheers.
Wayne Manor is often the host to many grand events and charity galas, but they always have a certain uptight vibe to them. Stephanie is technically invited to them all, as either Tim or Cass' plus ones, sometimes even Damian's plus-emotional support-one, but she doesn't enjoy subjecting herself to high class haughtiness.
This however, was much more welcoming. She flounders at the garden entrance for a moment, just looking around and getting a feel for the sunshine and laughter she always forgets can exist in a place like this when Duke catches her standing from the refreshment table.
She watches the way he gently taps the elbow of a girl next to him, flashing her a charming smile and telling her a quiet I'll be right back.
Stephanie raises a brow when he bounces over to her with a grin, "Now, who was that?"
Duke rolls his eyes, but his sheepish smile is not lost to her, so she eases the teasing when he pulls her into a quick hug, "Glad you made it. You're just in time to watch Dax and Cass wrestle with pool noodles."
Steph has no idea who Dax is, but anyone wrestling with Cass is a scary image, "You sure that's a good idea?"
Duke flashes her a smirk, "Probably not."
They both laugh at that, and Stephanie feels just a little brighter with all this giggling and scorching sun reflected off of Bruce's obnoxious sunglasses as he's napping on the deckchair by the hot tub, Damian passed out on his chest.
Duke raises his hands to point out some of his friends ('That's Riko, you saw me talk to Izzy earlier, and that's —'), which is when Stephanie finally sees them.
Duke's shirtless, wearing nothing but green swim trunks and a gold chain that she's almost certain belonged to Dick at some point. The chain somehow brings more attention to the two large scars, healed, glowing faintly right under his chest. For a second, Stephanie isn't quick enough to hide her surprise at seeing them, and Duke's words falter for just a second.
He slowly drops his hands, but doesn't shy away from Stephanie's face, looking not one bit hesitant when he asks, "We good?"
It's a simple thing. A casual question Duke asks a lot of the time. You good? We good? Everything good? Normally a nod would suffice, or a smile and a question about how he's doing in return.
The question is a little different this time. It sounds the same, but Stephanie knows it's a test of some sort.
"Yeah, we're good," she grins, punching him lightly on the shoulder, "You're a badass, you know that?"
Duke's fading smile brightens immediately, and she wonders briefly if that's part of his powers or just a testament to who he is as a person, "Yeah, I know. C'mon then, let's push Dick into the pool."
Bruce probably had his suspicions, because that's just the kind of guy he was. Stephanie knew better than to get annoyed after all these years, since all it did was upset her more than it did him. Or, at least, it's nicer to think of it in that way.
Injuries are nothing new to them. Especially when they're up against heavy hitters like Killer Croc. Damian's not allowed to engage with him (to Bruce's knowledge, at least) and Cass is investigating her own case with Tim in uptown Gotham.
So it's just Batman and Spoiler, like the good old times.
Unsurprisingly, by the time they're back in the Cave after a long night of fighting and almost drowning, the two are leaning against the back of Batmobile seats, clutching broken ribs and bruised egos. Stephanie's fairly certain Bruce throws up into the cup holders, which would be concerning, if she wasn't seeing double in her vision.
Somewhere during the tussle, Spoiler is a beat too slow to miss a particularly dangerous swing at her, landing her right into the concrete walls of the sewer. She had knocked out somewhere between that and watching Batman fly into a pipe, because the next thing she realises, Bruce is half carrying and half dragging her through suspiciously brown liquid to the car.
"Okay," she groans when Bruce deposits her on one of the medbay beds, before he almost slips and collapses head first onto the ground, "I'm good. I'm good. Just — go sit down."
Bruce grunts, pushing himself up to glare at her as he starts to take off the cowl and cape that are weighing him down, "I need to wrap your ribs. Quickly."
She could argue that her bruised ribs aren't going to get anymore bruised if they wait for Alfred to finish talking to Damian over the comms to treat them, but Bruce is already grabbing the compression tape and bandages. With a huff (that hurts to exhale), she reaches back to unlock the front of her chest armour, placing it on the side.
Bruce does the same with his own suit while Steph rolls up the compression shirt, hissing in pain when moving her arms too high sends blinding pain down her back. Bruce frowns, either from his own pain he's opting to ignore, or the large dark bruising across the side of her torso.
"Hold still," he tells her unhelpfully as he unrolls the tape.
Whatever comment she could make to that dissapear when he presses the tape on her side without warning, the pressure suddenly making the area burn in pain. She almost reaches out to push his hand away, but this is not the first time she's had to tape her ribs. Better to power through it now than try to heal slower later.
Instead of cursing him out or kicking him in the neck, Stephanie decides to stare intensely at the way his jaw ticks in agitation. It's obvious his own pain is becoming less and less avoidable, but he's already put his mind to treating her first.
It makes her a little mad. So she looks away from his face and down at his hands instead, watching them shake just a little as he places the final tape across her side before grabbing the roll of bandages.
The pain was sedated a little with the pressure from the tape, a constant effort against the irritation. It's also, a little easier to ignore the burning by counting the white lines and scars that cover Bruce's hands.
She's noticed them before. She's sure everyone has noticed them before, since Bruce makes no effort to hide them. In fact, she was probably there when he got a few of them, either by punching through doors or digging through rubble. The gauntlets do well to shield him from the worst of it, but Bruce's always been good at fighting with just his fists.
It's surprising the press has never made any comments about Brucie's MMA fighter hands. Maybe it has something to do with the fact he's usually doing something too outrageous to bring any attention to the fact that his right index fingernail grows wonky compared to the others from excessive and untreated damage.
It doesn't stop her from asking anyway;
"Why don't you hide them?" Stephanie asks quietly when he's wrapped enough bandages around her that the roll is almost finished.
Although she's not looking down at Bruce's arms anymore, opting to stare down at her lap, the white stripes of damaged skin across his knuckles and forearm are seared into her memory. Bruce doesn't need to ask what she's talking about, because he had definitely seen the way she was staring down at his scars.
He doesn't shrug, because Batman doesn't shrug, but he does something close to it while gently tightening the bandages across her abdomen, fingers ghosting the healed cut across the bottom of her stomach, "Why don't you?"
She doesn't have an answer to that.
She hasn't spoken to anyone about that particular scar. Tim and her didn't need to talk about it on the account that he was literally there for it and Cass ran her hands across the scar once and never mentioned it again. There was that one time Damian and her were sparring, and she'd taken off her shirt when the Caves air conditioning really wasn't helping, in which he looked like he wanted to ask — but ultimately chose not to.
He'll probably ask one day, because he's Damian, but she appreciates the sentiment. He's always been a good kid like that.
She's never gone out of her way to hide it. Skirts, jeans, leggings — they all just conveniently rise high enough to cover it. She's also never thought to include it in Bruce's ridiculously detailed medical file he has for everyone. It doesn't mean anything anymore.
But Bruce seems hardly phased at all when he meets her eyes once, steel blue eyes silently telling her something.
She's not as well versed in Bruce-speak as Dick is, but even she can tell this is an attempt and telling her he's far too emotionally unprepared to say anything to settle the tense silence between them. That he cares in a way that's important, but not in a way he can say out loud.
Stephanie scoffs. Good things she's pretty good at hearing people who have nothing to say.
She snatches the roll of bandages out of his scarred hands, hopping off the bed with a hiss, "Ow, fuck. Alright. Let's swap places before you collapse."
Bruce still passes out (turns out he had been actively bleeding out during that entire conversation), but at least he does so after Stephanie pushes him onto the medbay bed. Alfred was not impressed with their subpar medical treatments when he finally found them.
Lucky for Bruce, he was unconscious when Alfred went on that particularly long and grueling lecture.
Stephanie, not so much.