I do not own Ratched.
I do not own my angel boy Huck. But I love him.
Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale
Upset Stomach
The next time she comes back, he's been up.
Used the lavatory facilities, splashed water on his face.
Brushed his teeth.
And tried . . .
"Mmm . . ."
. . . to brush his hair.
He's worn out now and everything connected to his shoulder hurts.
His arms, his fingers.
His neck, his head.
His other shoulder.
His back, his chest.
Moving anything hurts.
But he does it anyway because it's still better than being dead.
He supposes.
And when she opens the door, . . .
"It's nice to see you up."
. . . she smiles when she sees him.
"How are you feeling?"
Like I've been shot, is what he wants to say.
Don't be a smartmouth, Huckleberry.
Sorry, Ma.
So instead he replies in a more gentlemanly manner.
"Better. Thank you."
And she smiles at him again.
"I brought you some food if you can eat."
And she has.
Meatloaf, mashed potatoes with gravy.
English peas.
Roll.
Whole milk.
Slice of apple pie.
He sits down at the small table set just for this purpose and she places the tray carefully atop it.
He expects her to leave then.
I wouldn't want to watch me eat either.
But instead he feels her start to sit . . .
"Unless you prefer to be alone?"
Remember your manners, Hucklebberry.
Yes, Ma.
"No, um, of course."
. . . and he simple cannot abide the thought of her staring . . .
"But, um, would you mind coming over to the other side, please?"
. . . at the hard white scars of what remains of that side of his face after the mortar exploded . . .
"Oh. I'm sorry."
. . . in Germany.
"It's okay. I just can't . . ."
The other thing is-
. . . see you on that side."
He hates to admit it, feels ashamed.
But she seems to comply easily.
Moving around behind his chair and settling herself on his right.
The side where he can see her.
The side where he's still normal.
She sits.
Hands folded neatly in her lap
Ankles crossed demurely.
And he tries . . .
"Thank you for the food."
. . . to eat with her staring at him.
He's right-handed and thanks to the damn bullet, he's got to go southpaw.
"Oh-"
Which thanks to the mortar explosion, is weaker to start with.
And clumsier.
So he spills the peas off his fork . . .
"Damn-"
. . . down on to the napkin on his lap.
And she . . .
"Sorry-"
. . . doesn't even grimace as she . . .
"I'm not usually-"
. . . reaches over . . .
"Here."
. . . and steadies his hand . . .
"Let me help."
. . . so he can raise the fork to his mouth.
"There."
And he is appropriately . . .
"Thank you."
. . . ashamed once again.
"You're welcome."
The dry, chunky meatloaf is easier.
As is the yeasty roll.
The gluey mashed potatoes stick to the fork fine.
Even though . . .
"I'm sorry . . ."
. . . he can only stomach . . .
"I'm just not feeling . . ."
. . . a few bites.
". . . very . . ."
And then for no reason at all, it's all coming back up anyway.
And he's shoving back his chair, knocking it back . . .
"I'm sorry, I can't . . ."
. . . stumbling across the room, shoulder protesting in pain.
And then he's in the lavatory and he's on his knees and he's vomiting up the mashed potatoes, the meatloaf, the roll.
And those damn peas.
And it's not much but he hates the taste of it, the feel of it coming back up his throat, all sliding and gooey and burning.
His shoulder hurts so bad he feels like he's going to pass out.
But he can't let her find him collapsed in front of the toilet like a drunk.
And so he . . .
Oh Jesus-
. . . staggers himself to his feet.
Finds the flush.
And weakly . . .
Not much of a hero now, huh-
. . . makes his way back into the main room.
She's still there, the girl who would be soft and gentle with kittens.
"I'm sorry . . ."
And he just wants her to leave-
"I don't usually . . ."
-but she's coming over to tuck him into bed.
"It's okay. You've been through a lot."
Like he's a helpless child.
"Do you want something for the pain? I've got some meds you can take."
Or something.
"No."
And he hates how weak . . .
"Yes."
. . . he is.
She nods.
Reaches into her apron pocket, brings out two small blue pills . . .
"These will help you rest."
. . . and presses them into his . . .
"Thank you."
. . . left hand.
She hands him some water which is good because he's not sure how well he would do with the viscous whole milk.
And he downs the pills.
And leans shakily back against the pillows, forehead damp with sweat.
"I'm sorry, I don't usually, I mean . . ."
And now his voice is shaky and weak.
And he's feeling queasy again.
And anxious that she's looking at him with his half-melted face . . .
"It's okay. You've been through alot."
. . . but her voice is still kind as she presses a clean cloth to his damp forehead.
"You'll feel stronger tomorrow."
And talks again in that gentle, soft voice . . .
"I promise."
. . . that would be so nice to kittens.
Thank you so much to audreyoctopus and DinahRay for so kindly continuing to review! I very much appreciate you gentle readers. :)
