Chapter Text
Honey will tell anyone who will listen that she has always been this way. Born to shine, she claims, batting her eyelashes while a talk show host loses himself to giggles. And there is no doubt about it, from the way she dons Versace couture as she claims the red carpet, to the way her laugh rings in a room full of wealthy industry plants.
What few know is that before she wielded words like weapons and flaunted her long golden hair, she was once a girl who woke up streaked in dirt, huddled in the corner of an alley, with no recollection of how she got there.
And what no one knows, not even her closest friends nor her numerous lovers, was that even before she awoke in that alleyway, she was a short girl with dark black hair in another universe entirely. But when that girl emerged from the alley within which she awoke in this new universe, she realized very quickly that this world was not her own. And in a testament to her wit and ambition, she decided then and there that she was going to sink her teeth into this new world and make it her own.
It took less than a day for the girl to don a name—Honey to match her new hair—and never again bring up the haunts of her past life. Still, knowledge is power, and Honey decided to use her past life’s knowledge to her advantage.
She has never claimed to be a good person—before her rise to fame, she spent nights pawning off pick-pocketed goods for cash, and even before then she spent a lifetime building her own future brick by brick, regardless of what it cost those around her—so she really has no qualms using the music industry to her advantage. And, well, Taylor Swift doesn’t exist in this universe, and neither does Billie Eilish. Neither does Ed Sheeran, Justin Bieber, or any of the likes. And though she possesses veritable abilities in music (as will be expounded upon later: she has a voice that’ll trap you like a fly in honey), she has neither the time nor energy to compose songs of her own, and she needs to get out of the godforsaken hellhole she awoke in.
So, she spends a week saving money from her stolen goods, then walks into the nearest thrift store in what she considers to be Gotham’s equivalent of the East Village like she owns it. She ruthlessly cuts through their collection of clothes and emerges one-hundred-and-six dollars lighter, with an armful of clothes.
That night, she lays freshly clean in a bunk in a Martha-Wayne Foundation Center, hugs her purchases to her chest, and schemes.
Two days later she walks into a renowned music label and signs a record deal. Years in the future, the public speculates that she was just so unbelievably charismatic that everyone in the damned building dropped what they were doing and clambered over themselves to sign her. What she keeps to her chest is that she walked into the building and was swiftly removed from the premises by the building’s security after asking the front desk for a record deal.
It takes her a minute-and-a-half to stand back up on shaky legs, brush off her thrifted top, and stalk back into the building with her head held high and a steel-like quality to her golden-brown eyes.
With a string of glazed eyes trailing her, Honey climbs the rungs of music-industry bureaucracy and by that evening, sits on the phone with the head of the record label Eastern Soundboard.
It is then that her eyes turn hazel and her voice loses that trap-like quality. She tells the CEO of the company, in no uncertain terms, that she has an album put together that will lift her and her board of governors out of the economic pit they’ve spent themselves into. She rattles off numbers that she spent two hours researching in the local public library, sings a thirty-second excerpt of the single she plans to drop, then, when met with silence, starts praying to a god that she doesn’t believe exists.
It is to her great relief that a laugh fills the room, and she walks out of the building with a two-year deal and the threat of the blacklist should she fail to fulfill her end of the contract.
One and a half years later, golden eyes flutter open to the sound of intermittent beeping and low-volume swearing. Honey fumbles to turn the alarm off as her bed partner stands, and takes a moment to appreciate the broad, dimpled shoulders that quickly disappear under a black undershirt.
She can’t honestly remember much of last night—something about a cross-industry fundraiser and that it would be good for PR if she’d show her face and schmooze with the uber-wealthy. Like a warrior setting out to the battlefield, she’d donned her armor (vintage Dior), painted her lips crimson carmine, and pulled on her façade. Though she recalls spending at least two hours chatting with the Gotham-elite, she’d always been partial to mimosas, and after five glasses the night fizzled out into a warm haze of titillating banter. Not that she’d mind remembering bits of it, if the soreness of her inner thighs is anything to go by. And it’s with this thought in mind that she appraises the dark-headed figure on the other side of her bed, who has begun to slowly collect his belongings from where they lay trailing towards the bed. Honey eyes his muscled legs and appraises his -- hem-- endowed glutes.
And then he turns around and holy fucking shit it’s Dick Grayson. As in, Richie Wayne, notorious womanizer, known for his dimples and criminally sharp jawline. And, if her past memories are anything to go by, someone who has a very lively nightlife, something she notes as she eyes the thin scar trailing up his bicep.
Honey cannot believe her goddamned luck. It’s not like she was avoiding any interaction with the main characters. In fact, she’d stepped into the limelight knowing that she’d likely run into one of the main characters of the DC Universe at some point. But, well, knowing and seeing are two very distinct things, and Honey doesn’t know whether to feel guilty about the fact that she kind of, sort of, wants to remember exactly how things went down last night.
“Good morning, darling,” Honey croons, breaking the silence and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Though she’s never been particularly shy about flaunting what this universe has given her, the way Dick’s blue eyes fly to her as she rises to her feet has her feeling a teensy bit vulnerable.
“That’s not the way I would put it, but sure.” Dick comments, resting his hands on his hips. “That alarm should be criminal after the night we had.” As she turns to face him, Honey notes the way his eyes stubbornly remain above her shoulders. A gentleman indeed.
Honey’s eyes slide from tracing his chiseled jaw to the clock that lay on the wall behind him, reading 9:57. “I have a studio session at noon. I can make you breakfast if you’d like? My stylist is scheduled to arrive at 10:15 though.”
Dick hums. “I think I’ve got it covered.”
“Right, I’ll show you out then.” Honey begins moving to the door, slipping on a silk robe as she gestures Dick to follow.
Dick lingers. “Don’t you want to cover up first?”
“Darling, the only people who have been on this floor in the past week are me, my manager, my wonderful maid Clara, and you. None of this,” she gestures to her robe that barely conceals anything under, “is anything they haven’t seen before. Come along now,” and Dick finally follows her through the door.
“Wait, your manager has seen you naked?” He stumbles a little at the revelation, but Honey only glances briefly over her shoulder.
“Jonathan wouldn’t know how to appreciate a woman’s body if he were the last man on Earth.” His confused look had her adding, “He’s gay. TMZ covered it in their issue last year I think… His newest paramour is a doll, and I do hope this one lasts… Ah here we are.”
Honey unlocks the dark oak front door and opens it, then turns to smile at Dick, who looks slightly bemused. After waiting a couple of seconds, she chides, “Well, I don’t mean to rush you, but I do have to eat before Angelica arrives. Once she has me in her grasp, she won’t let me breathe for at least an hour.”
“Oh, of course,” Dick scrambles to the door. “Is there a way I can contact you..?”
“Yes, yes,” Honey waves him off, “I’ll contact you if the baby’s yours. Child support payments should come in monthly, by the way— I’m kidding, darling.” Huh. His daunting horror is kind of amusing. “I’m not looking for a baby daddy at the moment. Not financially stable enough as of yet. Though if by some miracle you’re pregnant,” she eyes his midriff appreciatively, “well, you can contact my label for Jonathan’s number, but we will be going to court for child support.”
Dick, befuddled into stillness, has seemingly forgotten how to operate an elevator. Something that Honey gently reminds him of.
Recovering, Dick says “Well, I really meant—” and is interrupted by the ding! of the elevator arriving.
“—if you want to do this again.”
“There’s your ride, sweet. Make sure the paparazzi catch you on the way out, so I can write my next hit based on you. Media reception really boosts stream rates, you know? And anyways, I’m not a two-time type of gal. Unless you’re looking for a three-month failed situationship, which your reputation doesn’t suggest you dabble in.”
He cocks his head, smirking slightly. “You believe the rumors?”
“Darling, that smirk alone encourages the wiles of anyone attracted to your gender. I wouldn’t be surprised if half of the chatter is true—even if only in their fantasies.”
Another ding!
“Off you go, darling. I’ll think of you fondly the next time Gotham Gazette reports on your escapades.”
“Oh—” He’s interrupted by the oak door swinging shut, hand half raised in farewell.
“What a strange woman,” he mutters to himself five minutes later as he walks out of the apartment building lobby. He very quickly realizes after being summarily blinded that Honey’s mention of the paparazzi was not, in fact, false.