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The first little paper crane Jean saw was sitting on the door by Toby’s stall, about two weeks after the whole hanged man disaster. He’d been coming out to the stables more and more often to try and escape the awkwardness of the bullpen- the living ghost of his friend (and lover) was too much to bear sometimes, and Toby didn’t judge.
His horse had decided to leave the little folded paper bird alone, surprisingly. Vic idly patted his Toby’s nose while inspecting it.
It was not well made. The paper was an off, aged-white with some yellowed stains. Wrinkled and creased in incorrect places, but it was still clearly a crane, even if its head pointed at an odd angle.
Jean had brushed it off. Hadn’t the precinct had a school tour recently? Regardless, he took it home with him. Something inexplicable about the pathetic paper bird kept him from just throwing it away.
The second crane he’d found was in the communal ashtray in the sad excuse for a courtyard in the side alley of the silk mill, another place he’d begun hiding during the day. This was several days later, enough to still be chalked up to coincidence. It was a piece of yellow, lined notepad paper- or it was once yellow. Since it was sitting in the ash, nearly half-buried in it to keep from blowing away apparently, it was mostly a dusty dark grey.
Jean noted, distantly, that this one seemed to have less mistake folds.
He’d shaken as much ash off as he could and pocketed it.
The third and fourth made it abundantly clear that these were intended for Jean and Jean alone. They were both made from RCM recruitment flyers- and tucked into his running shoes in his locker. He never kept it locked, and that was the norm, so really anyone in the entire precinct could’ve left them.
He didn’t hesitate this time, taking them home in his workout bag.
The fifteenth was in Jean’s Mug in the break room. Made of a nicer paper now- and with much more skill. It made him cast a furtive glance around to ensure that there was no one else in the room. Certain he was alone, he allowed himself a small smile.
50 was an especially large one, sitting on Jean’s desk chair first thing in the morning. While the rest had been about 6 inches in length, this one was nearly triple that. It had made Jean snort out a laugh in his office, tucking it away carefully. It was a relief since the caseload was particularly tiresome that week, thus him coming in so early.
He’d stopped counting by crane 75, keeping all of them in an empty jar on his desk at home.
Each one he found was very clearly left for him to find. They weren’t around every day, and some days he’d find more than one, but they became part of Jean’s routine in the best possible way. Plus- whoever was leaving them was careful to make sure the cranes weren’t immediately visible to anyone else which gave Jean the privacy to enjoy them without judgement.
He found cranes 164 through 187 in a take-out bag with his name on it in the break room fridge. People knew damn well not to touch anything with Vic’s name on it, so it was left alone. Jean may not even have found it unless McLaine had asked if he could eat whatever was in there.
276 was made of a receipt for a restaurant a few blocks from the precinct- and a coupon to said restaurant was tucked into the fold of the tail. It had made Jean chuckle at its silliness- but it made his stomach twinge with apprehension. Did this admirer (that’s what he’d taken this to be, an act of admiration) know he’d barely been eating the last few days? Was this an encouragement? Or was he reading far too much into it…
300-400 passed in a blur, all of them turning up during some particularly brutal and stressful cases. Jean had found most of them in the precinct gym, waiting for him at the end of the day. Some had come bearing gifts. Cigarettes, chocolate bars… on the fifth day in a row of Jean boxing until his knuckles were bloody, one of the cranes had appeared with a type-written “please” on the wing with a roll of bandages. Jean hadn’t hurt himself in the same way since receiving that one. Whoever this was cared, and that was enough.
500 was made of some kind of sparkly paper and had a little tag tied on its neck that displayed the number proudly. It was typed, so there was nothing to be gleaned from the machine written numbers. Jean had found it on the fire-escape balcony that some of the wings used as a place to smoke and escape from work. It had been taped to the railing at a jaunty angle.
It had caught Jean off guard that this was 500 already. He hadn’t really put much thought into the whole thing. Every day he expected to be the last day- or for whoever this was to just come talk to him already. He didn’t expect that there would ever be 500 of these little paper bastards accumulating on his desk at home- not that he minded.
In December, Jean had found one with “Happy” typed on one wing and “Birthday” on the other inside the top drawer of his desk. It was accompanied by a pack of fresh cigarettes- fancy ones at that. At first he was confused, but lo and behind it was his birthday and he hadn’t even been paying attention.
He’d been fully expecting that to be the only good thing about the day- but the members of C-wing had actually remembered and taken him out to dinner, special consultant Heidlestam as well. Harry and the only recently transferred (due to precinct issues) Lt. Kitsuragi were in attendance and… well, it was nice. Jean didn’t think it would be, but it was a genuinely nice time.
The Birthday Crane sat on his bedside table when he went to sleep that night. It was #758.
Winter started its slow and unsteady thaw into spring, and the cranes were a part of it. It was nearly a miracle that no one else had caught on yet.
Jean had found #832-851 all strung together on a silvery piece of thread on the front seat of the precinct’s newly-assigned Coupris 40. With a almost a year finally passing since Martinaise, the captain finally accrued enough funding to get one- which was collectively assigned to C wing (with the rule that Harry was never to ever drive it).
Jean preferred riding Toby, but today he’d needed to drive out to GRIH to swap some case files about a possible sequence killer. The case was grim, but the little flock of cranes (discretely disguised no less) made his day fair less painful than it would’ve been otherwise.
He may have forgotten his own birthday, but the anniversary of the Hanged Man case wasn’t something Jean could forget if he tried. Sure, the shitkid had been trying to make things better, but it was different. Jean was stubborn as hell and didn’t want to admit that things were better. He sure didn’t believe that Harry was sober- despite the evidence.
But things were better. He and Harry were tentatively becoming friends again. Nowhere near as close as they had been yet- Jean still didn’t know if Harry even knew about them, about who they’d been to each other… But things were getting closer and closer to normal with every passing day. Or at least a new normal. One where Jean didn’t need to flinch when Harry entered the room, or stay up late and filled with worry on the night before a day off.
The Captain, in his infinite wisdom, gave both Harry and Jean the day off.
Jean didn’t really know what to do with the empty, painful-memory-filled time. He elected to sort through some of the cranes. There’d been so many that they’d far overgrown any containers he’d tried to make work.
The buzzer for his apartment startled him mid-morning. He’d answered tersely. “What?” He hadn’t been expecting anyone.
“Hey, Jean…” Harry’s voice crackled through the ancient intercom. “Can I come up?”
The man’s voice had Jean buzzing him in on instinct- despite all that had happened. Jean didn’t know what to say or how to feel about Harry being there… on that day. So he just unlocked the front door and sat pensively on his couch, waiting for Harry to limp his way up the stairs.
There was a surprisingly timid knock on the door.
“It’s open-“ he announced, making no move to answer.
There was some muffled shuffling and swearing, but the door finally did open-
To reveal a shockingly well-dressed Harrier du Bois. He was wearing his dress uniform. Not the Perseus blacks, but the full formal ones. The ones they only wore for funerals, formal banquets, receiving medals… weddings in the past…. He wasn’t just well dressed- he was also carrying a massive colorful bouquet.
Not a bouquet, Jean noticed, cranes.
The last 100.
“Uh, h-hey.” Harry mumbled uncertainly.
Something stirred in Jean’s memory now about the cranes, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it.
“These are for you.” He held the bouquet out awkwardly, still lingering by the door as if expecting to be sent away.
“I, uh… after Martinaise. I heard a milieu talk about other cultures when I was on medical leave.” Jean finally stood up and approached as Harry spoke. “In seolite mythology, cranes are sacred or magic or something? And… if you fold 1000 of the little guys, you might get a wish?”
Jean was standing right in front of Harry, who, for his part, was staring squarely at the ground.
“But… I could only think about wishing for one thing…” Harry finally met Jean’s stormy grey eyes. “I still can’t quite remember everything, but I remember how much I care about you… I wish more than anything to try again. To… try and be a better version of whatever shithead you… liked.” He finished, tensely.
There was a long pause, Vic examining Harry’s face, the cranes… thinking about the 900 others he’d kept and how much love and dedication he’d felt from every single one.
“You didn’t need to wish for me.” Vic’s voice was quiet and gravely, choked with emotion.
When he kissed Harry, they fit together perfectly. It wasn’t like before- but that was better. They were better.
After the Pale, life again.