Newsies Imagines

Talk To Me (Finch)

It is a silent morning in New York, which is unusual. The typically busy streets are devoid of walkers, and the few passersby who dare to brave the morning sun skirt the edges of the buildings, staying out of sight. You can hear the sounds of the city if you try, but mostly, you're blocking them out to focus on the boy who just stopped right next to you.

You glance over, then return your gaze to the streets just as quickly. "I'se not supposed to be talking to you, you know. I've been lectured about getting distracted."

Finch snorts. "Who would yell at you for talking? We all talk."

You fold your arms across your chest. "Tell that to Jack. He spent twenty minutes last night yammering on about how I spend too much time joking around and not enough time actually selling my papes."

You think Finch arches a brow; you can just see the movement out of the corner of your eye. "That's absurd. Jack doesn't do anything but go back and forth between Davey and Crutchie, doing nothing except talking their ears off."

You lift a shoulder. "Yeah, but he still manages to make his daily share. I do too, but that's not important."

Finch considers this, then shrugs. You can hear a rustling sound, and moments later Finch grabs a pape from his bag, unfolding it with a crisp flourish. He holds it in front of his face so no one can tell who he is, leaning against a lamppost behind you.

"See, now I just look like a happy customer. Problem solved. Anyways, Y/N, how are the sales?"

You grin, grateful that Finch's paper hides your expression from him. You've always been a little too stuck on him, despite the fact that you've spent years trying to get over the butterflies in your stomach.

Finch has been one of your oldest friends, and the two of you joined the ranks of the Manhattan newsies together when money started disappearing from your pockets. He's the one you can count on to have your back, even if you were cornered by a bunch of Brooklyn soakers, and you trust him with anything.

Well, not quite anything. There is one secret that you've been holding back a while, sometimes even from yourself. You just like him a little too much, that's all. You like the way his eyes squint closed when he laughs, how he always goes to you first at the end of a long day out in the sun. You like everything about him, and that's precisely the problem.

Finch also knows you a little too well, so you swallow back your thoughts and try to answer his question before he starts to suspect the reason you're so hesitant around him.

"Sales are good, I suppose. It's quiet out here. I just need to sell a couple more, and then maybe I'll take a break before the lunch rush comes out."

Finch nods sagely, as if he'd been expecting this answer. Who knows, maybe he did. You have no idea how much time you spend on his mind, but if it's even half as much as you think about him, he should be able to guess your intentions pretty damn well.

"Say, I was thinking about doing the same thing. How about we eat together, huh? Jack can't get mad at us for talking if we'se eating, you know? Meet me at that small park across the street from the bookshop whenever you're ready."

You hazard a glance at him behind your back. Finch has lowered the edge of his newspaper hopefully, and you can just see his dark eyes looking over at you. His dark curls have started to poke out from underneath his cap, and he raises a hand to fix it self-consciously, as if he can feel your gaze on him.

You grin, to let him off easy. "Absolutely. See you then, Finch."

He beams, although he fixes his expression back into neutral a half-beat later, still trying to seem cool. "Yeah, yeah. See you."