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“This is bad.”
“Yep.”
“This is
bad.”
“Yep.”
Steph leans back against the pillows of Cass’ bed, crossing her arms behind her head. “To be fair, I told you not to go out last night. Nobody ever listens to wise ol' Stephanie Brown.”
Cass prods the throbbing purple bruise on her cheek with a wince. The bruise spans from her cheekbone, all the way up to her temple and against the outer corner of her left eye. Steph’s own face hurts just looking at it.
Last night Cass got called in on an emergency with Scarecrow despite having planned to take the night off in preparation for the Wayne charity ball tonight. They caught Scarecrow in no time and put him safely back in Arkham, but not before Cass received a nasty shiner that makes it look like she got slapped with a wet fish filled with cement.
...Which she was. Gotham villains are weird.
“Take it from somebody who has notoriously bad luck,” Steph says, watching Cass examine her face in the mirror. “That’s some
seriously
bad luck.”
Usually Cass avoids any Wayne functions she can, feeling too much like an outsider compared to Gotham’s more refined and wealthy citizens, but tonight is one of the biggest events of the year. All of the Waynes are expected to attend, being the hosts and all, which includes Cass.
Cass nods, wrinkling her nose. “Too noticeable. Can’t go now.”
That's probably a good idea. Steph can already see the headlines. Once the press gets a look at that bruise, they're going to have a field day spreading rumors about Gotham’s sweetheart Bruce Wayne abusing his beloved daughter. It’ll be a mess.
“Can’t you just cover it up?” Steph asks. “A little concealer and you should be golden.”
“I don’t know how. I’ve never...used makeup.”
Steph rolls off of the bed. “Then you’re in luck today, my friend. I happen to specialize in the art of camouflage.”
Which is why, ten minutes and one dug-up makeup kit later, Cass is sitting cross-legged on the edge of her bed while Steph works her magic. She applies alternating layers of concealer and powder, working as gently as she can so she doesn’t hurt Cass' already sore face further.
Cass watches her progress in a hand mirror. “You’re good at this.”
“Thanks. I’ve had a lot of experience.”
“Crime fighting?” she assumes. And Steph admits, that would make the most sense. After so many years pounding in the faces of criminals and receiving enough hits of her own to land her in Leslie’s clinic weekly, Steph
would
be knowledgeable on covering up injuries.
But she shakes her head. “Nah, way before that. When I was a kid I used to steal my mom’s makeup bag and use it to cover up bruises before school. Got pretty good at it, if I do say so myself.”
Cass’ eyebrow twitches, confused. “Why?”
Steph snorts. “Have you met my dad?”
That’s when it seems to click, and if Cass wasn’t trying so hard to stay still, Steph is sure she would have jerked back in shock. “He hurt you? But you were...young. Innocent.”
“So? So were you.” And if Steph were being completely honest, she’d have to say that being trained to fight and kill from birth is
way
worse than getting smacked around a few times. Okay, a lot of times.
Steph remembers the first time her dad hit her. She was five years old and she was having a tea party with her Justice League action figures. (Mom got them for her that same day. As soon as he saw them, Dad threw them in the trash and spouted some crap about the Justice League being privileged assholes.) Steph was using one of her mom’s fancy plates for the tea party, but she accidentally knocked one off the table and it shattered on the kitchen floor.
Dad had drunken himself silly earlier that day after having to bail on a robbery because of a certain bat showing up, and before Steph knew what was happening he was smacking her across the face, yelling about how she was an ungrateful brat and that he never would have had a kid if he knew she would have just spent her days destroying everything. Steph expected her mother to help, to defend her, but she hardly noticed. She pretended not to notice any of the other times, either.
Cass looks ready to punch a tree. “Cluemaster...is a monster.
Fathers
are monsters.”
“You don’t mean that,” Steph says calmly. She applies more makeup to the sponge. “Bruce is good, right?”
“...Yes,” Cass amends after a moment. “Bruce is good.”
Steph shrugs. “See? Just because you and I got born into crappy situations doesn’t mean all fathers are terrible. Besides, my dad wasn’t the only one.”
“Other people...hurt you?”
Another shrug. “I mean, yeah. I had a shitty taste in men back then. Most of them got rough whenever they had the chance, and I didn’t know at the time that getting hurt wasn’t supposed to be normal. Tim was the first boyfriend I’ve ever had who actually treated me with respect.”
She remembers her first boyfriend from seventh grade. He was sweet at first, not the brightest and had been arrested twice for shoplifting, but when Steph wouldn't give him a blowjob behind the school one day he punched her in the stomach and spat on her before leaving her there, crying in the grass. Another time, during the summer before she started high school, Steph dated a twenty-year-old asshole from Crime Alley. He called her a bitch and slammed her against a wall when she wouldn't buy him cigarettes. Dean wasn't the worst by any means and actually seemed to like her for the most part, which was new. But when Steph told him she didn't want to have sex with him one night after a party, he smacked her until she complied. Needless to say, that decision didn't end well.
“You shouldn’t be hurt,” Cass says, eyes blazing with barely-contained rage. “Never hurt.”
Steph gives her a small smile. “Don’t worry, I made a promise to myself a long time ago that I wouldn’t let another person lay a hand on me again. And that if they did, they were going to fucking regret it.”
The rage doesn't leave Cass' eyes, but it makes room for pity.
“I’m sorry.”
Steph dabs on some extra powder, ignoring the twang in her chest. “Don’t be. I’m fine now. And you’ve suffered
way
more than I have, so.”
“But it’s still suffering,” Cass says.
And Steph...can’t bring herself to argue. “Yeah. It’s still suffering.”