Rose Wilson hates Gotham. She hates Chicago more — the idea of the normal life she could’ve had before her father and Grayson and everything that followed.

She hates you the most. Hates the whole ‘do-gooder’ hero type more than anything else. She isn’t dense enough to miss the hint of pity in your eyes when you look at her. She thinks it’s worse when you look at her when she might be worth something in the quiet moments spent tangled up in your sheets.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” she says as your fingers trail along her arm in the aftermath, too soft for whatever you two are. Friends, enemies, lovers. The thought almost makes her laugh. “I should get going.”

The words are more for show than anything — she makes no attempt to leave, and she wouldn’t until you kicked her out or the embarrassment of allowing this to happen again got to her.

The silence stretched on uncomfortably in a way that made her skin crawl, tongue coming out to wet lips that are suddenly far too dry. The more she thinks about it, the thing she hates the most about you is that you don’t treat her like damaged goods. She won’t change — can’t change — and you don’t attempt to make it happen.

You’ve seen how she is. You’ve had to put a stop to her enough times as it is. She craves the touch of you in quiet nights like this as much as she craves the adrenaline of a fight.

“You don’t need to beat me up every time you want me in your bed, y’know.” It’s a poor attempt at humour on her part, but she can’t stand the silence anymore.