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He first noticed it a couple of months after Steppenwolf. He’s mostly healed by that time. Mostly meaning he can actually go about his business without hiding winces and discomfort (which is a lot these days) to the general public and to Alfred — even if the butler already knows. The amount of pain can be difficult to quantify, really, especially when he’s got other things — better things — to quantify.
Like stocks, damage control, new tech, some statistics, the amount of Bruce Wayne’s public appearances to keep up with the tabloids, social media posts, and—
—and increasing number of folded colored papers discreetly placed in his various workspaces.
He would’ve asked Alfred. No, he should’ve asked Alfred. Except Alfred wouldn’t exactly do this and he already knows Alfred had seen them and chose not to talk about it.
Bruce frowns at the one in his hand, a green crane.
Crane. Not particularly exciting at all, he thinks, recalling the feel of something crawling through his system.
The League may have noticed it too. Though they’re not talking about it. Barry’s eyes widened one time upon seeing a red fox on the ‘batcomputer’ (as Barry had called it one time and Bruce had to turn away, pretending to work on schematics he had finished hours before they arrived) before Bruce did; surprisingly though, he didn’t comment on it.
Also, surprisingly, he didn’t touch it and merely gaze at it with those eyes Bruce first saw when the batsignal shone in the sky when they were all together.
Arthur held the blue fish the following week, his hair still dripping wet and Bruce suddenly felt the urge to get the paper out of his hands. He stomped it down and clenches his jaw, his fingers typing faster than before, causing him to finish decrypting a file faster than needed and intended.
He scanned it, of course. Tested it. Different types of tests, everything that the cave can offer. He knows the exact type of the paper, who manufactures it, where it can be bought, how much it costs, how much —in average— it is bought, the effect various types of substances it has on it (which is why no, Arthur, you can’t touch it with saltwater wet hands).
No fingerprints, either. It’s practically a clean slate.
Bruce heaved a sigh, carding his fingers through his hair. Alfred, bless his timing, placed a newly brewed coffee right under his nose, the smell enticing enough that he had gripped the mug even before he finished counting how many he had had for the day.
“Hit a slump, master Bruce?” Alfred asked, backing to the central computers, probably for surveillance. Bruce glances at his watch; yes, time for surveillance check.
Placing the mug down, Bruce peered again at the paper under the bright light of the examination lamp, picking up a pair of tweezers, “There’s nothing here.”
“Well,” Alfred began, his tone ‘matter-of-factly’ enough that warranted a frown from Bruce, “You haven’t opened them yet.”
A few click of keys filled the silence that followed. Minutes passed as Bruce continues to turn the origamis around and around until Alfred left.
He didn’t open any of it.
By the third month, he has exactly forty-one of them. Bruce has tabulated exactly how many of each color he has, how many folds each craft probably has, computed the average of how long it takes to create each one.
There aren’t any wrong creases on the paper, so either it was made carefully, or it was practiced to perfection before leaving it around for him.
The latter piques his interest, but he didn’t indulge any further.
He still examines them, every week now rather than every time one pops out. And just like any other time, nothing comes out of it.
A clean slate.
One morning, he sees Diana fiddling with a brightly colored one.
Yellow. Twelfth. Color last used five origamis ago. Began following the Fibonacci sequence like red and blue after the seventh origami. Unicorn-shaped.
Bruce glances at Diana’s fond smile, “Children. I still work with children.”
She stayed for a couple of hours, exchanging novel recommendations with Alfred while tinkering around the cave. Bruce knows she visits to check up on him still. He sure appreciates the effort but he also sure thinks it’s not entirely needed.
At some point, she mentioned training for field strategies; commenting how it will be good for the team to be comforted by one another’s presence in the field. Bruce merely nodded along, already checking schedules, strategic plans, and listing down strengths and weaknesses.
After she left, he searched every symbolism related to origami.
Not a week later, Vic and Barry dropped by.
Given that, yes, the cave has been — without proper election nor appointment — the League’s current headquarters, Vic and Barry made an effort to lighten up the place with their presence at least twice a week.
Bruce couldn’t exactly find it in himself to tell them off.
With a smile on his face, Barry helps in some of his designs, giving his thoughts on some and actually listens to Bruce whenever they stray into talking about crime scenes; the detective in Bruce stands prouder whenever Barry asks the right questions. At one moment though, Barry may have mentioned a concert of some girl— some pop — some band or something pink—
“They’re called BlackPink,” Victor helpfully tells him when Barry went off with Alfred to the kitchen, “He couldn’t stop talking about them. I mean, he was about to cry when I mentioned the news that the concert was sold out when we were out getting lunch.”
Nodding, Bruce checks out the group on his phone, already dismissing the ‘sold out’ concert as nonsense, “He does like them.”
“And Bruce—” Vic turned to him, the elevator already opened and waiting for him— “There’s a llama origami on top of the Batmobile.”
The Batmobile.
And llama.
Shrugging, Bruce contents himself with the device in his hand, already sending an email to the concert organizers.
Barry knocked him to the floor with a hug the next meeting with the League.
It was after he dismantled an operation of weapon smugglers that made their hole between Gotham and Metropolis when he saw the black dragon sitting quietly in the medbay.
The weapons were military grade with armor piercing rounds. Bruce anticipated enough and got out a little less scathed than what he thinks Alfred expected. Still, taking down more than twenty armed men is bound to take its toll.
He stops, staring at the papercraft placed snugly to where he would sit patiently as his body gets wrapped in bandages again. Then he rubs tiredly at his eyes, allows his shoulders to slump just a bit.
With a grunt, he sits beside it, removing pieces of the armor that he can without jostling his ribs too much.
Dragon, he mulls over, sparing a glance at the thing, power, wisdom, mastery, success.
Tonight was somewhat of a success.
Bruce smiles despite himself, picking up the folded paper in his hands; bruised knuckles stark against the dark color of the paper.
Arthur points at him with the glass of scotch in his hand.
“You should open them,” he said, doing that thing with his mouth that says he could’ve articulated that better but he won’t. Bruce internally wished for Diana’s lasso again at that very moment.
“I mean, there’s probably something there.” Arthur continued, shrugging as he pours them both another glass of the drink, “Sure you already know every possible thing about it except what’s inside.”
“There’s nothing inside.” He replied, dropping the batarang he is sharpening in favor of the glass. Bruce glances at the box behind Arthur where all of the origamis were kept.
The Atlantean raised his eyebrows at him, chuckling. Looking over at his shoulders, he said, “There’s bound to be something.”
With a sigh, Bruce downs the rest of his drink. He didn’t say anything when Arthur sneakily pocketed a batarang.
The next time there was an origami in the cave’s general vicinity, the League was around.
Bruce already isolated whoever keeps leaving them within the League. If not among them, then he has a sneaking suspicion he would be terribly surprised when he finds out who.
Not a lot of things can do that these days.
Clark is gently cradling a red phoenix in his hands, small smile on his lips and Bruce had to look away.
They discussed strategies and plans on the League’s new headquarters. It’s a choice between creating the one located on the planet first, or going all out and build a satellite for all the supers and metahumans that the team feels will come out soon.
“The satellite will be ideal,” Vic said, arms crossed, “It’s easier to keep an eye out when you can see everything.”
“Yeah, but do we have funds?” Arthur countered, “I’m willing to give some gold but I doubt any terran will accept it. Not to mention where I’ll get some—” He looks up, contemplating— “Or, at this rate, how I will get it out.”
“Let the tides bring it.” Vic replied, monotonous. Barry snickers beside him but covers his mouth with his hands when Arthur turns his glare at him.
“I’ll let you know—”
“—That it’s already taken care of.” Bruce interjects, striding to the other side of the table closer to Diana who is studying the façade of the inland headquarters, “Bruce Wayne will be the highest benefactor. He will try his best to gather as many funds as he can.”
With a glance at him, Diana smiles and points at the two schematics as Arthur chuckles, whispering ‘my man’ under his breath, “The inland headquarters seems to be easier to construct than the satellite. Although, I agree with Victor that the satellite will be more… ideal.”
“I can help.” Clark suddenly said. Bruce looks up and sees the man still smiling that smile he has with the red phoenix, “I mean, if you really want the satellite I can help building and sending it into orbit.”
Barry jumps up, “Awesome! We’ll call it—”
“—I’ll call the piranhas.” Arthur mumbles, already standing up.
“The Watchtower.”
“Do you not like them?” A tentative voice asked somewhere to Bruce’s left.
He glances at the reflection on the array of screens before him, “Not exactly.”
“Oh.” Was all Clark replied to him. He looks down at the phoenix in his hand as Bruce stood up.
When Bruce returned from patrol that night, he sees a simple white crane atop the League’s headquarters schematics.
For the following months, all he ever received were cranes. Different colors. Sometimes he would receive a bunch in a day and if he keeps count because he had read somewhere about it, who else is there to know, right?
He still keeps them in the box, careful not to smash all of them inside. He still doesn’t open them. Much to his own chagrin. Some days he thinks he understands them, some days not at all. He still keeps the catalog, aware of the possible meanings of the colors or of the forms. Some days he is sure of who sends them, some days he is sure he doesn’t deserve them.
It went for almost a year. The Watchtower — because he actually approves of the name — is almost halfway done thanks to the League’s collective work on the construction and some funds, mostly thanks to Bruce Wayne’s efforts.
Nine hundred ninety-nine, Bruce counts, holding the black and red crane in his hand.
With a smile, he whispers, knowing full well he can be heard, “What are you going to wish for?”
With an almost silent thud, Batman lands on the rooftop, the bright light of the signal shining in the sky.
There’s a single crane resting on the metal.
“When did you found out?” Superman asked, fiddling with the edges of this cape, floating a few centimeters off of the floor.
Batman stares, lips twitching, “Probably after the hundredth crane.”
“Did you ever opened them?”
“I couldn’t.” Batman admits, “Why did you send them?”
This is slowly turning into an interrogation and Bruce reminisces about the moments he nearly opened them. His examinations show nothing, yet people around him kept insisting he should open them.
“You can assemble and take apart complex machinations and you didn’t open a single origami?” Superman huffs a laugh, floating up and down as his shoulders shake with restrained laughter, “It’s a rhetorical question.”
Superman floats closer to him, holding the last of the thousand cranes between them, “You asked me what my wish is.”
“It was a rhetorical question.” Batman glares, clenching his jaw as he fights down the urge to reach for the papercraft. His own mind chiding him at the near-Pavlovian conditioning.
A chuckle and that smile radiant against the backdrop of Gotham night sky, Superman stares at him and if it were a year ago, Batman would’ve turned away from those blues trained solely at him.
“You.”