There's silence: tight lipped, quick pulse pound, eyes averting. Silence. Bruce's fists are clenched by his sides. The Joker is standing, unflinching, wide grin. Jonathan's eyes dart between them behind the glint of his glasses. Hotch's team stands, waiting, unsure.

"Yes," Wayne says again, tensely. "Batman is also part of this organization." His fists uncurl. The Joker is still smiling. "Now let's move on."

Only Hotch's team follows. They are ushered like cattle up the stairs, past the living room, down the long hall, which turns sharply at a right angle. There are enough bedrooms for all of them individually.

"The others are housed on the other side of the house for safety," Wayne says, as he shows them the bathrooms, the bedrooms (average size, queen-sized bed, a bedside table) but for whose safety, its unclear.

Reid is exhausted, as is the rest of the team. Weariness is etched into each of their faces, eyes dull with the weight of the day. Wayne seems to notice this and excuses himself.

"Get some rest," he says. "From now on you'll be working in house. No need to travel back and forth from here to the precinct. Feel free to join the others at any time."

"Anytime?" Prentiss questions, a challenge lingering there.

"Yes. As you'll see in the coming days, they don't sleep much."

He exits. They are silent amongst themselves.

"Alright," Hotch says, running a large hand through his dark hair. "Let's get some sleep and be downstairs at 8."

"You really expect us to sleep tonight Aaron?" Dave questions though he's more curious than combative. "I don't know about you, but I don't do well bunking with killers."

"Yeah. I don't trust this "team" at all," Morgan voices, "What's stopping them from killing us? Hope?"

"Look I don't trust them either. We shouldn't trust them but we can and we will work with them. Understood?" Hotch doesn't wait for a reply. "Good. Now get some rest. I'll see you all in the morning."

Crane regards the Joker, taking in his stance, his wide, wide grin, and the spindly arms crossed.

"You shouldn't have done that."

The Joker turns to him, previously tossing his blade and catching it. His eyes go wide in faux innocence. "Do what?" Crane is silent. Joker shakes his head, slithering up to him until they're chest to chest, breathing the same air.

"He could've decked you on the spot."

"I was itching for it," The Joker says, voice giddy and manic. The doctor is unamused, arms crosses, unmoving. The Joker looks to the side, sighs dramatically, gestures wildly. "Okay, okay, no pushing the bat. Got it. Anything else oh lover of fear and things that go bump in the night? Would you like me to shine your shoes? Cook our guests breakfast?"

"You really are batshit," Ivy says, a bit disbelieving herself.

The Joker growls and turns to her. "How many times I gotta tell you, flower fucking power, I'm not crazy." He laughs, regards his comrades wary silent faces. "I'm just ahead of the curve. And if you don't want to end up under the curve of my blade, I suggest you learn that." And stalks up the stairs and slams the door. Gone.

"Now you shouldn't have done that," Selena says, after a tight pause.

Ivy huffs. "Whatever."

"She's right," Crane says, seating himself on the couch. "He's been cooped up in here for weeks now. You don't wanna push him."

"We all have!" Ivy says, "we've been stuck in this place for weeks and have we been this fucking crackerjack crazy? No. You need to stop babying him. All of you do."

"There's a difference between babying and not stirring the pot," Selena argues. "It's not worth riling him up. He's crazy."

"He's not crazy," Jonathan says firmly. "He knows exactly what he's doing, what the consequences are, why it's wrong. He just doesn't give a fuck. He's not crazy. He's a wreck.

"You better smooth it out with him," Selina warns, looking at the door the Joker just slammed. "We all know how much of a wildcard he can be."

Upstairs, the Joker is a wreck. He storms through the large house, manic energy making him vibrate, knock books over in a random study, flip his bed over, punch walls. He's all raised edge, all animal. He needs the tang of blood on his tongue, the bruises on his skin. He misses his knives, pulls one his favorites from his pants pockets and watches as the light winks off its edge.

The bite is familiar on his skin, almost euphoric. Red, metallic, heavenly…

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Bruce. His gnarled voice similar to the Bat, his rough hands prying the blade from his nemesis, staining his own calloused palms in red. "Joker!"

The clown looks up at him through hazy, tired eyes. His grin is loose and falsely jovial. "Yes Bat?" he says, and sways a bit where he stands. "What can I do ya for?"

"You can't do this here," Bruce says, the panic in his voice shocks both of them. "You're under my protection. I'm responsible for you now. You can't do this crazy shit."

At this the Joker rises to his full height, glowering, lips pulling back into a snarl. "If one more person in this fucking house calls me crazy—"

"Alright, alright," Bruce says, raising his red hands in surrender. "You're not crazy. I'm sorry."

The Joker seems to accept this, frowning and slouching a bit.

"Now lets get you cleaned up."

Morgan tossed in his bed, groaned in frustration, punched his pillow and turned over again. Was it too hot or too cold? Was it the bed or his nerves? He could hear Rossi snoring through the wall that separated him and groaned.

"God man," he muttered, sitting upright in his bed. The haze of the moon was visible through the thin curtains. He ran a hand over his face and realized his throat was dry.

"So hot then," he thought and removed himself from the bed. He threw on a T-shirt and a pair of boxers and slipped silently from his room.

The large house was a maze but he managed to find the kitchen.

"The first aid kit should be around here somewhere."

Morgan ducked behind the corner, recognizing Wayne's voice. He peeked over the side trying to remain unseen.

The Joker sat on the counter, casually swinging his legs like a child. Bruce was muttering to himself, riffling through drawers and cabinets. Finally he produced a first-aid kit and laid it down on the counter.

From it he produced a small bottle of antiseptic and a large Band-Aid.

"You have to wash it off," he told the Joker and the clown rolled his eyes irritably.

"I've done worse," the Joker said dismissively, "so have you."

Bruce just stares until the Joker sighs and runs his arm under the faucet. In the light Morgan can see the cause of their bickering: jagged cuts on the harlequin's wrist, still leaking blood.

"It's not too deep," Bruce says as he pats it dry with a paper towel. He dabs it with antiseptic. The Joker doesn't even wince. The large Band-Aid is next, which the billionaire puts on with an amount of care that confuses Morgan greatly.

"Aren't you gonna kiss it?" The joker mocks, obnoxiously batting his eyelashes. Bruce shoves him and he nearly falls from the counter.

They're silent as Bruce cleans up the materials, puts the first aid kit away, throwing the band-aid wrapper in the trash.

"This is the only time I'm gonna do this. Understand?"

"Yeah yeah no more teenage angst. Got it."

"I'm serious Joker. If you're so anxious to get hurt let me know and I'll just knock you around a couple times." He's teasing and he knows it, but he doesn't know why. You tease people you like and he certainly doesn't like the clown. Loathes him, would be a better descriptor, he thinks observing the others dirty, bloodied, clothes, greasy hair and garish grin.

"Will do," the Joker yawns, oblivious to Bruce's inner monologue. In a grace no one would understand, he slipped from the counter. "See ya Brucey." And he's gone.

Bruce stares after him and shakes his head. Morgan decides his water can wait.

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