wow this is long but i hate doing cuts bc it always screws up so im sorry. technically this is an x reader fic but she’s gotta newsie nickname so
also someone do a count of how many times i use the word pretty bc lemme tell you its a lot
Sometimes, Davey wishes he could be more like Jack Kelly.
Jack Kelly who walks into a room like he’s lived there his entire life and you’re the one visiting, Jack Kelly who leads the newsies on strike without so much as a second thought, Jack Kelly who demands respect without even having to be asked, Jack Kelly who struts instead of walks.
Davey’s pretty much the opposite of Jack - he knows that, he knows Jack knows that - so why, out of every newsie in Manhattan, did Jack Kelly decide to bring him to Brooklyn?
Davey asks himself this question as they cross the Brooklyn bridge, Jack strutting and Davey following behind him with worry in his veins.
“There’s no one selling on the bridge,” Davey notices, speaking louder than normal for Jack to hear him over the crashing of the East River underneath them.
“Yeah,” Jack replies, “technically, it’s neutral territory, seein’ as it stretches from Manhattan to Brooklyn, so Spot ‘n I decided that no one should sell on it, just to keep things civil.”
“So you and this Spot character,” Davey swallows, “you’ve worked together before?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Jack scoffs, “more like Spot came up with the idea 'n I agreed to it.”
“So he is a big deal, like everyone says?”
Jack takes the hat off of his head, running a hand through his hair before putting it back on.
“He’s one of, if not the, toughest newsie in New York, probably in the country,” Jack explains, “so yeah, he’s a pretty big deal.”
Davey can feel the atmosphere change as they reach the end of the Brooklyn bridge, and suddenly he feels even more out of place in his pressed vest and light blue shirt than usual.
They pass a small boy, definitely younger than Les, holding a rolled up paper in his hands. The boys eyes grow wide at the sight of Jack, and almost immediately his mouth forms into a loud whistle. Then it’s as if the entire city erupts in the same tune as the boy, the sound bouncing around different corners.
Jack isn’t fazed, in fact, it’s almost like he’s following the noise, leading Davey down a few twist and turns until he can see the entrance to Navy Yard Pier.
“C'mon,” Jack says gruffly, and it’s then that Davey notices his eyes shifting back and forth along the alley way.
He starts to ask a question, but as soon as he opens his mouth his attention is redirected towards the sound of glass shattering a few feet away from them, Davey’s eyes landing on the broken remains of a bottle that land at his feet.
“You’ve grown up'a bit since I’s seen you last, Jackie boy.”
The voice comes from somewhere above them, but the sun and the echo of the alley stops any attempt Davey has to pinpoint it.
Another bottle breaks, this time on Jack’s side instead of Davey’s, and the leader huffs in annoyance.
“Yeah, it’s been a'while,” Jack says loudly, “and we all know you’s missin’ on purpose, jus’ let us by so’s we can talk to Spot.”
A shadow falls across the cobble stoned alley way, and Davey watches in disbelief as a girl jumps down from one of the roofs above, landing squarely on her feet. She holds a slingshot in one hand and bounces a few loose pebbles in another, newsie hat tucked into the band of her pants in front of the red and white checkered button up covering her torso and her suspenders hanging loosely from her waist.
“Uh uh uh,” she teases, eyes blazing, “you know well as anyone that ain’t how this works, Jackie boy. No one gets to Spot 'til they goes through me.”
“C'mon now Ringer,” Jack says, exasperated, “we’s need to talk t’ Conlon, it’s important.”
“Must be if you’s makin’ the journey yourself,” she replies, eyes dancing over Davey, “does pretty boy 'ere 'ave a name?”
Davey feels the tips of his ears turn pink, and he knows she notices when she smirks.
“Aw you brought me a shy one Jackie,” she coos, “he have a voice or is his job to stand by your side and look good?”
“We’re here to get Brooklyn in on the strike,” Davey surprises both himself and the others by speaking, and - at least in his own mind - he sounds more like Jack than himself, “Manhattan’s got a union now, and it’s time for all the newsies of New York to stand as one against the owners.”
She says it in a way like she had been expect those exact words to come out of his mouth, and Davey feels the blush move down from his ears to his neck. Jack, on the other hand, drags a hand down his face in a mix of frustration and embarrassment.
She steps closer, shoving the pebbles into her front pocket and the slingshot in her back one. Peeking out from under her hair, Davey can see the collar of her shirt popped up, and somehow this only adds to the aura of toughness that surrounds her.
“Try not t’ sound so rehearsed when you’s talk to Spot, pretty boy,” she says, patting Davey’s cheek before pulling back, “follow me.”
She turns swiftly on her heel, walking down the alley as they both follow behind her. Davey’s careful not to trip over his own feet as he watches the way she walks; sauntering almost, head held high and a sort of arrogance surrounding her.
She walks like Jack, he thinks, and then he wonders whether people are born with the ability to walk that way or if it’s a learned skill.
Davey decides that it must be a born trait, and he also decides that he does not particularly like the way the Brooklyn newsies stop and stare as both he and Jack follow the girl down the pier to the sad excuse for a ship docked at the end. Cautiously, both boys follow her up the platform, standing in front of none other than Spot Conlon himself.
“Well if it isn’t our very own cowboy,” Spot says, “and he brought a friend, how sweet.”
“Pretty boy 'ere’s a shy one, but he’s got a mouth on him,” Ringer says, taking her place behind the Brooklyn leader, leaning against the side of the boat with her arms crossed over her chest.
“Hmm, I like that. I’m gonna call you Mouth,” Spot smirks.
Jack glides right over this development, cutting Davey’s protests off and plunging straight into the story of the strike and how they need Brooklyn’s help to make a difference. Davey can tell by the look on Ringer’s face that she believes everything they’re saying, which is why his face contorts into confusion when Spot says no.
“How do we’s know you ain’t gonna run at the first sight o’ trouble?” Spot asks, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Jackie boy, but I gotta lot of lil’ ones to look out for, I can’t jus’ bring 'em into a fight like that, not until I knows for sure it ain’t gonna end bad.”
“I says we ain’t gonna turn tail, so we ain’t gonna turn tail,” Jack argues.
Part of him knows it’s futile, and Davey can feel it too.
Spot drags a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Walk 'em to the bridge, would'ya Ringer,” he asks after a few moments of silence, “can’t have Jack Kelly and Mouth 'ere gettin’ soaked on our turf.”
“C'mon boys,” she says, once again leading them down the dock.
The walk is silent until they reach the main road, Davey finally finding his words amongst the anger and confusion.
“Is there something different we shoulda said?” He asks, hands in his pockets.
The girl turns around to face them, walking backwards along the street.
“Nah,” she shakes her head, “Spot woulda said no regardless, but once you prove yourself I think he’ll come around.”
“You’ll talk to him?” Davey says hopefully.
The girl laughs - a sharp, almost barking type of laughter - but it’s the first time Davey sees her actual smile instead of just a teasing smirk.
“I’m Spot’s second, not his keeper,” she says, “me sayin’ somethin’ won’t change his mind.”
“It’ll take a lot more than a pretty face to get me to go against the King of Brooklyn,” she replies, “even if that face is yours.”
With that, she turns back around, nodding at a group of teens on one of the corners they pass.
They reach the bridge soon enough, Ringer standing to the side to let the boys go. However, before they get more than a few feet away, her voice stops them.
“Hey, pretty boy,” she calls.
Before he can even realize what he’s doing, Davey’s following the sound of her summon over to where she stands.
“It’s Davey, actually,” he says.
She smiles again, and this time the boy can see just how white her teeth are, and how boldly they contrast against her sun-kissed skin.
“Some advice,” she says, tossing a pebble in the air a few inches and watching it land back in her open palm, “stand your ground. Whatever fight breaks out, because believe me, there will be one…don’t run from it. That’s the only way you’s gonna get Spot to come through with back up. He’s a man o’ action more than words.”
Davey nods as a thank you, not trusting his voice. She nods back, satisfied, and strolls off down the cobble stones.
“See ya soon, pretty boy!”
Davey sits with a glass of ice water pressed against his swollen jaw, eyes dancing across the room at all of the injured boys.
What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?
Amongst all the chaos and honest terror Davey felt the past twenty four hours, he almost forgot what she looked like.
Well that, and the fact that this time she wore her hair up under her hat, and her black suspenders are strung over her shoulders instead of hanging around her waist; a stark contrast against the red tank top she wore. But she walks, no, she struts into Jacobi’s with such confidence that Davey can almost feel her before he actually knows she’s there.
"Well ain’t this a sight for sore eyes,” Albert says as she walks by him, “what, we’s take a beatin’ so now we’s good enough for Spot Conlon 'n Brooklyn?”
Buttons smacks the boy upside the head, muttering a few choice words under his breath.
“Stow the sarcasm, copper head,” she spits, “'less you want another bruise to match that shiner. Where’s Davey? I need t’ talk t’ someone with some brains.”
“Nice to see you on our side of the bridge,” Davey says from behind her.
“Hey'ya pretty boy,” she turns to face him, “how ya holdin’ up?”
Davey shrugs, gesturing to his injuries.
“Not so pretty anymore, I’d say.”
She reaches up and settles her hand on his cheek between the bruise on his jaw and the one under his eye. Her thumb strokes the skin right below it, and Davey can’t help but notice how her eyes sparkle under Jacobi’s lights.
“Still just as pretty,” she whispers, eyes locking with Davey’s.
They stare at each other for only a few moments, the girl blinking and pulling herself out of the trance while taking a small step backwards.
“Heard one of your boys got taken to the Refuge,” she says solemnly, “that’s a tough break, Davey, sorry to hear it.”
“I uh…” Davey swallows, blinking slowly, “yeah, but we’ll get 'im out. You come all this way to check up on us lowly Manhattan dwellers?”
He feels a smirk appear on his face, a new feeling, but one that he enjoys.
“Nah,” she shrugs, “Spot sent me, wanted me t’ tell you’s that we’ll be there for ya next event.”
“Really?” Davey’s eyes light up, a slow smile spreading across his lips.
Ringer smiles back, bright and genuine, and nods.
“Yeah, really,” she says, “you took action 'n it impressed 'im. Brooklyn’s here.”
Davey lets out a shout of joy, pulling the girl into his chest as the other boys cheer behind them. He can feel her laughing in his arms, and it’s a feeling he never wants to go away.
“I gotta get back,” she says, smile still on her face as she takes another half step backwards, “got lots to prepare if we’s gonna be ready for tomorrow.”
Davey nods, arms dropping to his side.
“So then I’ll um,” he can’t wipe the smile off of his face, “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
“It’s a date,” she says, shooting him a quick wink as she walks backwards towards the door, “give 'em hell, pretty boy.”
Davey decides he likes the way he smiles when he sees her, and he decides this when, true to their word, Brooklyn shows up to the rally, along with every other borough in the city.
Spot strolls in, he reminds Davey of the way Jack walks into rooms, and all eyes seem to track him as he walks around the stage. Davey’s, however, stay on her.
Her hair is down like it was when he met her the first time, but she keeps it somewhat contained under her newsie cap. Her suspenders again hang around her waist, framing the khaki capris that her red and black striped shirt is tucked into. The slingshot is shoved in the waistband, and when he looks Davey can see the slight bulge of pebbles in her front pocket. He also decides that this is his favorite look on her.
He swallows down the nerves, walking forward and shaking hands with Spot Conlon himself. Davey can feel the absence of Jack in the theater, wringing his hands together in worry as Spot steps up to speak to everyone, and Davey can’t help but let his eyes drift to her, then curses himself when she catches him staring. She gives him a half smile, winking at him again. And, despite the blush that crawls from his ears down to his neck, he feels his confidence grow.
Davey steps forward as Spot moves back, and although he can’t silence the roar of the newsies with his hands like the Brooklyn boy, they calm down quicker than he thought.
The words come out smoother than he expected, and his voice doesn’t shake as much as he feared, but he knows deep down that he’s only biding time, he’s no Jack Kelly.
And then the other boy finally shows up, stalking his way into the theater the same way Albert goes into the circulation gate when he wants to pick a fight with the Delancey’s. Davey follows his gut, handing the floor over Jack, and almost immediately, he regretted it. Jack began spewing some roundabout story on why they should disband the union, and when he turns to talk to the leaders, Spot cuts him off by shoving him hard in the chest, sending the Manhattan boy stumbling backwards.
Everything happens fast, too fast, and suddenly all the borough’s beside Manhattan have left the theater, Jack among them. Davey shifts uncomfortably under the eyes of the newsies, his newsies, and desperately searches his mind for the rights words.
“Come on boys,” Medda speaks up, sending Davey a sorry look, “I’ll treat ya to supper, s'least I can do.”
Davey lets them leave, sitting on the stage with his head hanging low.
The boy lifts his head at the sound of her voice, wringing his hat in his hands as she sits next to him, feet dangling over the edge of the stage.
“Spot spoke well,” Davey argues, “I was just trying to bide time until Jack showed.”
“And then he did,” she says, shaking her head.
“And everything got worse.”
They sit silently, Davey staring off into the empty theater as Ringer stares at him.
“Strikes dead, Ringer,” he finally says, throwing the hat down next to him, “time to cut our losses.”
“You can’t mean that,” she says, “I know you don’t.”
Davey shrugs, the only thing he knows for sure is that he no longer wants to be Jack Kelly.
“So, Davey,” she says it slow, like she’s tasting every syllable, “is that short for somethin’ or?”
“David,” he replies, “nothin’ special. What about Ringer, how’d you get that?”
“Imma good shot,” she shrugs, tapping slightly on the slingshot in the waistband of her pants, “plus I like to finish fights more than starting them, it’s more fun that way.”
“So Jack was telling the truth, in the alley?” Davey asks. “When he said you were missing us on purpose?”
She hums, contemplation evident on her features as she nods ever so slightly.
“Well David, it’s nice to meet you,” she says, sticking her hand out, “I’m Y/N.”
Davey’s eyebrows twitch, one quirking slightly higher than the other. He takes her hand, trying to keep the blush from spreading to his cheeks at the feeling of her skin on his.
“That’s,” beautiful, you’re beautiful, “nice, it suits you.”
She smiles, and Davey melts a bit.
“You’s gonna be okay, pretty boy,” she says, leaning back on her hands, “regardless of whether or not the strike goes forward, you’s gonna be okay. But the rest o’ us,” she pauses, shaking her head, “we need this. You was right that day, when you came down to the Pier and said we’s need to stick together, we still need that. This ain’t over.”
“Jack Kelly would never 'ave come up with the idea to strike with out you’s,” she cuts him off, disbelief on her face, “you gotta give yourself more credit, Davey, you’s more than just a pretty face, you gotta brain up there too.”
She runs her hand through his hair teasingly, Davey groaning and trying to move out of her way.
“You really think we can do this without Jack?” He asks, eyes wide and hoping as he looks at her.
“We got you, I think we can do anything,” she says it casually, like it was everyday she convinced someone to start a strike, “I trusted you enough to tell you’s my name, didn’t I?”
She’s halfway towards the door by the time the words process in Davey’s brain, and he scrambles to stand.
She walks backwards - Davey files this move away in his mind as one she does when she’s confident - and the teasing smirk is back on her face.
“Means I trust you, pretty boy,” she says, “no one knows my name, not even Spot Conlon himself.”
Davey stutters, shaking his head at her.
“Come back tomorrow?” He asks as she reaches the door.
“Wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else!”
Davey makes his way back to the Lodge, choosing to stay there that night instead of at home. He feels bad, walking down the street with a smile on his face despite what happened at the rally, and he tries to wipe it away once he gets back, pushing the wood door open only to hear all the newsies shouting in what sounds like delight.
He turns the corner, eyes falling on Jack and Katherine standing in front of the others, eagerly explaining something over the noise.
“Aye Davey!” Jack calls, pulling the teen into the middle of the circle. “We knows how to fix the strike!”
And after, when Davey walks around the Lodge with a smile on his face for the rest of the night, well, the others would never know the difference.
The next day, Davey finds himself standing in newsies square, surrounded by his new friends - his new family - as Governor Roosevelt pronounces them the winners of the strike.
Naturally, cheers erupt across the square, and before he can turn around he feels her jump onto his back, legs wrapping themselves around his waist as she laughs next to his ear. He spins around in happiness a few times, setting her down and turning to face her.
She’s dressed the same as the day prior, except this time she donned black pants instead of khaki, and the only hint of her suspenders is the sun shinning off of the metal as they hang from her waist. She tosses her head back as she cheers, one hand holding onto her hat and the other raised in the air.
“We did it!” She says, bright smile on her face as she looks back at him. “You did it.”
Davey’s chest fills with a weird mixture of joy and confidence, and then he can’t stop himself. He cups her face with both hands and presses their lips together, feeling his eyes slip close. Almost immediately he goes to pull away, until her hands tangle themselves into the hair on the back of his neck and successfully hold his head in place. She tastes like salt water intertwined with smoke and Davey decides it’s his new favorite flavor.
They do pull away eventually, both teens smiling through their heavy breathing.
“Not so shy now, are you pretty boy?” She questions, laughing a bit as his ears still turn pink.
“Nah,” he shrugs, “found my confidence.”
She kisses him again, and the boys around them dissolve into a round of teasing ooh’s and ah’s at the sight. She feels Davey lift his arm to wave them off, both of them smiling into the kiss.
“Spot’s gonna kill me,” he mumbles, lips brushing against hers as he speaks.
“As if I’ll let 'im lay'a hand on that pretty face.”
romaincrisis
gracieabrams
izzy806
tangentwithtanner
stormborns
germansingergirl
amandla
