every small step counts !
in which jason comes home from patrol, notices you're struggling with food and your body tw eating disorders
Jason walked into the living room, stripping off the heavy leather jacket that still smelled faintly of ozone and street rain. Underneath, his black henley was worn thin at the seams. He caught your eyes as you sat tucked into the corner of the sectional, legs pulled up tightly against your chest, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like armor.
He didn't make a big spectacle of entering. He never did when he knew your mind was running in circles. Instead, he just kicked off his boots by the door, crossed the floor with quiet, deliberate steps, and leaned back against the edge of the coffee table right in front of you.
"Hey," he said softly, his voice low and gravelly from a long night out on patrol. "Howâre you holding up?"
You gave a small nod, keeping your chin rested on your knees. Jason looked at you for a long moment, those sharp turquoise eyes reading every subtle sign of exhaustion in your face. He knew the drill. He knew the specific look in your eyes when the noise in your head got too loudâthe quiet war you fought every day with food, with your own reflection, with the exhausting feeling that taking up space was somehow wrong.
He reached out, his calloused thumb gently brushing across the cheekbone above your blanket line. His touch was warm, a sharp contrast to the cold draft creeping in from the fire escape.
"You're running on empty," he said gently, not as an accusation, but as a plain fact spoken with pure concern. "I can see it in your eyes. When was the last time you had a few bites of anything?"
You looked down, picking at a loose thread on the blanket, struggling to find the words. The guilt, the friction, the sheer mental fatigue of the disorder always made standard conversations about food feel like navigating a minefield.
Jason didn't push. He just crouched down so he was entirely at eye level with you, leaning his forearms on his knees.
"Look at me," he murmured, waiting until your eyes met his. "No guilt trip, alright? You know I don't play those games. I just care about you. I care about you, every single bit of you. And it breaks my damn heart seeing you wear yourself down like this."
He reached out and gently took your hands, wrapping his larger, rough hands over your cold fingers.
"You look beautiful tonight," he said softly, his voice entirely devoid of pretense. "You always do. Even when you're tired, even when your head is telling you a bunch of lies about how you look or what you deserve. You're absolute perfection to me, sweetheart. I mean that."
He squeezed your hands lightly before standing up. "I'm gonna make something light. Nothing heavy, nothing scary. Just some warm broth and a piece of toast with a little butter. Or whatever sounds manageable right now. You pick the terms, okay? I just want some fuel in your system."
You watched him move toward the small kitchen alcove. Jason wasn't the kind of guy who tiptoed around things, but with you, he showed a patience that felt entirely reserved for this quiet apartment. He moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, setting a small saucepan on the burner, keeping the light dim so it wouldn't strain your eyes.
After a few minutes, he walked back over carrying a small mug of hot, clear broth and a single piece of crisp toast cut into small quarters on a saucer. He set them down on the coffee table, then slid onto the couch right beside you, pulling you back against his chest so you were completely surrounded by his warmth.
His arm settled around your waist, holding you firmly, offering a heavy, steady anchor against the anxiety.
"Here," he said, handing you the mug first. The steam rose gently between you. "Just small sips. Take all the time in the world. I'm right here."
You held the warm mug in your hands, feeling the heat bleed into your palms. You took a tiny sip, the warmth settling instantly in your stomach.
"Good," Jason murmured into your hair, resting his chin on top of your head. His voice vibrated against your shoulder. "That's it. Just like that. You're doing great."
"It's hard," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly under the weight of the effort.
"I know it is," Jason said immediately, his grip tightening around you in a solid, comforting hold. "I know your brain is throwing a fit right now. But you're stronger than those thoughts, even when it doesn't feel like it. And on the days you don't feel strong enough, you lean on me. That's why I'm here."
He reached over, picking up one small quarter of the toast and holding it out toward you, entirely patient, without a trace of pressure or impatience.
"One bite for me?" he asked softly, a faint, encouraging smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "And if that's all you can manage right now, we stop. Deal?"
You took the bite. It was simple, warm, and manageable. As you chewed slowly, Jason shifted slightly to look you in the eyes, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
"Look at you," he said gently, genuine pride in his voice. "Every small step counts. You're doing the work, and I couldn't be prouder of you. You deserve to be nourished, babe. You deserve to feel strong, to live comfortably in your own skin. And I'm gonna keep reminding you of that every single day until you start believing it yourself."
He kissed your forehead gently, letting his lips linger against your skin while you held the warm mug between your hands, feeling safer in that quiet room than anywhere else in Gotham.
