Newsies Imagines

Imagine You're a Short Newsie

You're short. There's no way around that fact. Even some of the younger boys have passed you in height.

You don't really mind most of the time. Shorter means you can pass as younger, and younger sells more papes. But it is at times like this that you wish you could grow a few more inches.

Straining up on your tiptoes, you reach for the book on the top shelf. The littlest boys want to hear a story, and this book is one of their favorites. Unfortunately for you, Davey read the book last and put it away on the top shelf, an easy reach for him.

Glaring up at the book, you jump, reaching wildly. Your hand knocks against some old boots and caps stored on one of the shelves. They go flying, and one boot smacks you right in the forehead.

"Ugh!" you exclaim in frustration, quickly stooping down to gather the scattered clothing.

"Somethin' wrong, (y/n)?" a familiar voice asks from behind you.

You sigh. "Why am I so short, Race?"

"'Cause you decided to stop growin'," Race teases. "What do ya need?"

"The boys want a story, and Davey decided to put the book on the top shelf," you reply. "And I'm going to need help putting these clothes back."

He grins, blue eyes sparkling. He easily reaches the shelf the clothes sat on, but even he has to go on his tiptoes to reach the book. As he stretches, he pokes his tongue out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. Finally, he grasps the big blue book and hands it to you.

"Thank you, Race," you say and kiss his cheek.

"You's very welcome, sweetheart," he replies, kissing your forehead. "So, is it a good story you's gonna be readin'?"

"You'll just have to come and see!"