Newsies Imagines

Imagine Race Hitting You Accidentally

The sun shines bright, but the air still chills you. You sigh, impatient for the weather to make up its mind and stay warm. A sudden gust of wind whips your skirt around your legs, and you pull your jacket tighter.

You hear it before you see it as you walk along. The shouts of boys fill the air. You roll your eyes. Another alley fight. You pause, peering into the darkness, trying to see if any of your newsies are there. You catch sight of his curly blond mop of hair for a moment and inwardly groan. You'd told him to stop unnecessarily fighting. You hate to see him hurt.

Head held high, you enter the alley. Some of the boys catch sight of you. They begin to whisper uneasily, and some of them immediately leave, uncomfortable with a lady attending the fight. You watch for a moment. Race is getting the best of a dark-haired boy about his size, but it's by no means an easy fight. The dark-haired boy's nose begins bleeding, and you've seen enough. The small group of onlookers has disappeared, leaving only you and the two fighters.

"I'm done!" the dark-haired boy cries. Both boys stop, breathing heavily.

You use this opportunity to approach Race, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Race," you say too late. Race, expecting another attack, had already whirled around, landing a solid punch on your right eye.

Your hands fly to your eye, and you stumble back, screwing your eyes shut. You see sparks from the pain. Race swears. You open you left eye to look at him. His blue eyes are wide, and both hands clench his hair. The dark-haired boy is gone.

"Race?" you shakily ask, not quite sure how to respond to the situation.

"I hit you," is all he says, not moving a muscle.

"It's alright, Race," you reply, taking a step toward him.

"No, it ain't," Race says, swearing again. "You told me not to fight, and I wasn't gonna, honest, (y/n). But they bet me I couldn't beat this kid..."

"And I scared all of your money away," you say, smiling a little. "Should we call it even?"

"No," he says, taking his hands out of his hair and shoving them in his pockets. "Can I get ya some ice and a seltzer maybe? Then we'll call it even. I'd never hit you on purpose, (y/n), not for a million bucks."

"I know," you say. "I know. Ice and a seltzer sounds nice."