I do not own Ratched.
I do not own my angel boy Huck. But I love him.
Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale
Second Time 'Round
Her name is Grace.
The nurse who caught his upchuck in the white bowl.
He didn't see her very clearly on his first attempt at consciousness.
But he heard her voice.
Even though he didn't consider it very well at the time.
Too busy being weak.
But she is there again the next time he comes 'round.
And can almost think, can almost function.
In a world that thankfully doesn't spin like a ride at Coney Island.
He's still in the red paisley-papered room and he unconsciously thinks the walls look like they're dripping with dirty blood.
Just like the once white bandage on his shoulder that's now . . .
"Oh, it's wilting."
. . . seeping red.
He turns his head at the sound and sees . . .
"I'll tend to it."
. . . her.
He's seen her before, of course he has.
She works here.
She's relatively new, only started the last month or so.
He'd kept his distance, kept out of her way.
Usually skirting (pun not intended) all the nurses as much as he could because, if one couldn't tell,-
"Are you feeling any better?"
-he's more than a little shy-
"Yes. I think so."
-from being so ugly.
He wasn't always so.
Once, life had actually been quite-
"Good. I'm glad to hear it."
He's looking at her again, trying to really see her out of his one good eye.
She's on the young side like him.
And attractive. Not like him.
Shoulder length-strawberry-blond hair curled into soft waves.
Smooth oval face.
Bright red lipstick on her mouth.
The bright red the women like to wear.
The bright red that makes him think of the blood that painted the soldiers' faces as they fell and died in the mud.
Her slender frame feminine under her hospital uniform.
Lighter green apron over darker green collared dress.
Somewhere between sea-soothing and sea-sickening.
White heeled shoes that click like mini-gunshots on the linoleum floor as she crosses the room to his right side.
His undamaged side.
"I'm sorry. I messed it up."
It's all he can think to say.
Dumb, it's dumb.
But he's still not himself.
And she smiles gently, maybe a little nervously and he sees . . .
Oh.
. . . that she has eyes that one second look more blue than green and the next second look more green than blue.
"That's okay."
And she has a soft voice that now that he's listening for it sounds . . .
"That's what I'm here for."
. . . like she would be happy on a porch swing with kittens in her lap.
She doesn't speak anymore as she reaches for his shoulder and so he's quiet too.
He doesn't want to lurk over her as she works so he turns his head away from her pretty face and looks up at the ceiling . . .
"Mmm-"
"Sorry. I know that hurts."
. . . as she undresses and then redresses his wound.
"It's . . . it's okay. I'm sorry."
She finishes her work, gathers her supplies and . . .
"There."
. . . takes a step back from him.
"Would you like some water?"
He should do it himself, it's just a gunshot shoulder.
If the water was on the sidetable to his left, he'd say no.
But it's on his right.
And he is very thirsty.
"Yes. Thank you."
And she nods.
Reaches for the water pitcher and cup.
Pours.
Offers.
And he . . .
"Here you go."
. . . takes it with his scarred left hand.
"Thank you."
And sips.
It's room temperature and still the best thing he's ever tasted in his life.
"You're welcome."
And he doesn't want to ask her.
Doesn't want to make her talk about something so ugly and awful.
Because nobody should have to.
Especially a woman with a voice like sitting on a porch swing with kittens.
But he . . .
"Do you know what happened? With Ms. Wells?"
. . . has to ask somebody.
She pauses and he thinks he's upset her.
"No. There aren't much details."
And then she floors him.
"But everyone is saying you're a hero. They say you took her down and wrestled the gun away from her."
He looks at her in unmasked surprise.
Sees that kind, nervous smile again.
And swallows.
Tries to find something to say.
Can only think of one as a lopsided smile forming on his disfigured face.
"Not much of a hero, I guess. I got shot."
That smile of hers really is rather angelic and lovely.
"But who else would have gotten shot by her if it wasn't for you? You probably saved alot of people."
And he can't think of anything to do but . . .
"Thank you."
. . . smile and nod.
Most grateful thanks to DinahRay and audreyoctopus for choosing to read this little story and give it a review.
I'm glad that I'm not the only one who is much happier with Huck alive. :D
