Author's Note: I own nothing but a Siren.

*I also have a Tumblr. Check it out: nefariousundertakingsDOTtumblr

The Call

Autumn air brushed across the Joker's scarred cheek and filtered through his dirty blonde hair. Walking along the lonely streets of Midtown, he went over his plans for an upcoming bank heist. There would be six men, including himself, two on the roof, three in the bank, and one bus driver. Planned to a T, the men would all play their roles, only once each individual job was complete, they would bump each other off, one by one until he was the last man standing.

"I wonder how many of them will say one less share?" He mused to himself, his cackling laughter trailing behind him in the night wind.

Crossing the street, he made his way to the old art district.

People passed by, making idle chit-chat with their companions, none of them sparing him a second glance. While he wasn't new in town, he had yet to leave his mark. So they walked by him, believing themselves to be safe. That would all come to an end soon enough.

Rounding the corner, he stumbled upon an open art gallery. Eyeing pieces made visible through the window, he concluded that it was worth a second glance.

While he wasn't ashamed of his scars, the stares made his skin itch and he wanted to browse without interruption. Pulling his black scarf over the lower part of his face, he tucked it into itself and stepped inside.

The warmth of the room enveloped him. Following the simple layout of the gallery he took his time looking at each piece, tilting his head this way and that, brows drawn together in contemplation. Despite what many may think of him, he has always had a fondness for art; it was the one field where you could do anything, everything, and someone was bound to appreciate it. Art. The Joker's number one weakness, right after knives that is.

While he wasn't blown away, he did like a few of the pieces on display. Biting down on his scars he fingered the blade in his pocket, hoping that his impromptu visit wouldn't become a waste of time. Turning his head, he spied a painting in the corner.

Drawn like a moth to a flame, he gravitated toward the image, seeming to walk on air. The painting was a watercolor, the brush strokes were bold and the colors vibrant. The image was of a man and a woman; she was resting her forehead upon his cheek with her lips slightly parted, and his eyes were closed, a look of utter contentment upon his features as a vast explosion of color rested above their heads. It was as though their minds had spontaneously combust and their thoughts and feelings rained out over them. It was perfect. So perfect that he wanted it.

Turning on his heel, he cleared his throat, amber eyes searching around for an employee.

While he wasn't above stealing, he did purchase a few items here and there when they were worth it.

Just as he opened his mouth to call out a silvery voice reached him. The voice was smooth and pleasing, seeming to pierce his ears and embedded itself in his mind. Inhaling sharply the Joker felt it, a call, almost like the song had... beckoned him, telling him to follow, to search for the source. Without a moment's hesitation, he did precisely that.

Moving past statues and vases, he came around an obscure wall and came to an abrupt halt.

Before him, a woman wearing dark blue jeans and an emerald sweater was adding the finishing touches to another painting and by God was she was attractive. The unknown ebony beauty possessed a heart shaped face and almond eyes, with full, luscious lips, and a tangle of dark brown curls that fell to her breasts. Her golden brown skin was illumined by the lighting overhead and it gave her the most delectable glow. Rooted in place by her sheer beauty and gentle humming, he wondered briefly if he was being held spellbound by a Siren.

"Excuse..." he trailed off when she began to sing.

You know even stones change shape in time

Willingly they compromise

And the sacrifice is mine

For your eyes

At the sound of her song something deep within him responded to her. It was like a door had opened, allowing her entry directly to his soul. It sent a shiver of pleasure coursing through him and his lips parted, eyes brightening at the thrill of it all. More than anything he wanted to hear her weep, to scream at the top of her lungs, everything and more, just to see if somehow her silken tone of voice could be altered.

Cause the feeling you bring home

Is comfort in the coldest stone

Like a wish I go, I go

To be yours

His eyes fluttered closed as her song flow, her voice washing over him in waves.

Despite his quirks the Joker is very much capable of feeling, however, there were just some feelings that were stronger in him than others. Does this mean he is capable of love? It's not impossible. To accurately answer such a question one would have to define love. He could say with absolute certainty that love was not the giving of gifts or warm and fuzzy temperaments. His mind ran much deeper. To him love was to desire the greatest good for the beloved; his greatest good was to be free to cause as much chaos as possible. Find someone who would ensure that for him and he would give them his heart willingly, or quite possibly cut out someone else's and gift box it to them, but you get the gist.

Remember the way to the old town

Clear as my call from the fair ground

Rip my lace to your shape now

I'll ask you for more of what you found

'I'll ask you for more of what you found,' he ruminated, liking that line most in particular. He most certainly would be calling upon her again, wanting more, if not all of what he had just discovered. However, business came first.

"Excuse me, miss?"

"Aaaahhhh!" Her scream caused his eyes to light up like a firecracker. Nope, there was no change; even her scream was just as lovely as her singing voice; the tone rising ever so slightly as if she were a soprano about to burst into song once more.

The woman whirled around to face him. Placing a hand over her pounding heart, she breathed a sigh of relief to find a customer and not a killer. If she only knew, right?

Blushing slightly in embarrassment she rolled her eyes heavenward and chuckled. "You scared me half to death," she told him, hand still over her heart.

"Better take good care of the other half."

The ruby blush on her cheeks increased at his deep baritone. Looking him over, she quickly concluded that he was a man in possession of a unique sense of style. He was dressed richly in dark maroon trousers and a navy button-down shirt that molded to his muscular frame. Completing his look was a black coat, scarf, and odd, but funny looking brown shoes. Not only was he dressed to impress, but he was from what she could see, quite alluring. Why his hair hung loosely around him, falling to his chin in waves, and even though the lower half of his face was covered in a black scarf, his eyes sparkled, pulling her in.

"Well, you've got me singing," she told him, making fun of her blunder. "How can I help you?"

"I want to purchase a painting," he began. "It's the one of the two lovers." At that, he started speaking with his black gloved hands and she couldn't help but notice that he had long, slender fingers. "The colors are vibrant and seem to erupt right out of their…" He trailed off when he saw her eyes light up.

"Our Endless Abnegation."

"I'm sorry?" He asked, slightly confused.

"The painting is called, Our Endless Abnegation." Setting down her paintbrush she wiped her hands clean on a towel. "I'll go fetch it for you."

As she moved past him he inhaled the floral scent of her hair and noticed something in her back pocket which had him cocking a brow. He would know that indentation anywhere. A switchblade.

"I never caught your name," he told her when she returned with the painting.

"Marceline. Marceline Fox." She said with a smile. "And you?"

"Jack Napier."

Mentally, he shot himself. He shot himself twice. He had not spoken that name in years and yet it rolled off his tongue smoothly, freely.

"Jack Napier," she repeated liking the way the syllables flowed off her tongue. "I like it."

"Thank you."

Walking behind the counter, she keyed in a figure. "Alright, your total will be $250."

Stepping closer to the counter, the Joker fished in his pocket for his money and produced a stack of $100 bills. "Why so little?" he asked, slightly annoyed that her painting wasn't worth more.

"I'm not very popular," she confessed with a shy smile.

Joker met her gaze and she found herself lost in his eyes. He looked angry no, not angry, furious. The overhead lights shined down upon him and she noticed that his eyes were not dark like she assumed rather they were... amber. With his added fury, they appeared as two burning embers and she could do nothing but stand rooted in place, eyeing the burning coals.

"Well," he said thickly. "Some people just don't know talent when they see it." He pulled three one hundred bills from the stack and paused, an idea coming to mind. "You know what? Just take it all." Without warning he dropped the large stack of cash on the counter and grabbing his painting, made to leave.

"Wait!" She called out, scooping up the money. "I can't take this. Take it back."

At her command, he arched a brow. "No," he said firmly, daring her to argue with him.

"Look, Jack, I appreciate your gesture, but this isn't how you should show your appreciation." She took the money, all of it, and handed it back to him. Touched that he would go to such an extreme, she said, "I'll tell you what, I'll give you the painting as a gift. But in return, you have to promise to visit me again." She bit down on her lower lip as a blush rose to her cheeks. "Do we have a deal?"

A twinkle appeared in his eyes and Marceline would bet everything she owned that he was smiling beneath his scarf. "Alright," he agreed, taking back his money. "But when I see you again no screaming."

Thinking he was referring to her earlier blunder she laughed. "Fair enough," she told him with a chuckle. "I'll be waiting for you, Jack."

"You can count on me," he declared, amber eyes gleaming with mischief. "I'm a man of my word."