I do not own Ratched.
I do not own Huck. But I adore him.
Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale
No Complaints
It is a picturesque California day.
The sky, cloudless blue. Sun, golden glowing orb overhead.
Breeze warm, hinting of salt-water tang.
". . . five minutes more . . ."
Brassy big band backing Sinatra's sultry croon.
All the makings of a perfect day.
She beside him, simple blue kerchief wrapped carefully over her strawberry blond hair and tied prettily under her round chin.
Sea-green hospital uniform, white stockings, and shoes.
So far as he can surmise out of the one remaining eye on the far side of her.
All ready . . .
"I don't want to make you late for work."
"I'll talk to Nurse Bucket. I'm sure she'll forgive, considering."
. . . for a shift at St. Lucia's.
Now heading . . .
"I don't know. She can be pretty . . . stern sometimes."
"I'm not worried."
. . . in the opposite direction.
And so Huck Finnigan's self-assigned chauffeur pilots the big, clunky vehicle with a hand on ten and two, respectively.
Grace.
Miss Miller.
She is such a careful driver, never a mile over the posted speed limit.
No jerks or swerves or any sort of traveling hiccups to mar the smooth transit.
A perfect day.
Or should be.
A lady. A gentleman.
On a sunny afternoon.
Bouncing along together on the leather bench seat inside a well-maintained late '30s red Ford pickup truck.
But the constant vibration of the wheels against the road, the slight jostling of the worn road verses the leaf spring rear suspension, the thrum of those forces of friction, beat a throbbing drumbeat into his already worn out shoulder.
And Huck Finnigan, ever the stoic gentleman, . . .
"Thank you for the ride, Miss Miller."
. . . grits his teeth, . . .
"Of course. I couldn't just let you stranded on the side of the road. And please, call me 'Grace'."
. . . clenches his jaw, . . .
"Grace. Thank you for the ride."
. . . and keeps his face a carefully blank canvas.
And at least he thinks he does.
Painfully aware that it is the gnarled, inhumane side of his face presenting itself to her, he remains as politely quiet and unintrusive as he can manage . . .
"You're welcome, Huck."
. . . without being outright rude.
I did say yes.
And he is beginning to think it might have been better for him to have walked home.
Though this really is . . .
And she was so nice to stop in the first place.
. . . much shorter.
And it is.
Thankfully, the trip takes barely fifteen minutes.
From the turn off to the long, graveled driveway of St. Lucia.
To the quiet neighborhood street . . .
"Just left here. Chestnut Grove."
. . . where, at his gingerly gestured direction, she eases to a smooth stop.
Mrs. George Graham's two bedroom, one bath, deeply porched California bungalow.
Complete with separate garage.
And Huck's rented room above.
It is to this that humble abode that Grace puts the truck into park and turns off the engine.
Huck himself turns, as much as his screaming shoulder will allow at least, his head to face hers.
Hoping she can see the one grateful blue eye he has left to offer . . .
"Thank you for the ride."
. . . before awkwardly reaching across to open his passenger door with his scarred left hand.
Easing out.
"Wait, Huck-"
And catching the door on the inward swing, almost succeeding in not wincing at the fresh stab the movement gives him.
"Yes?"
Her face is open, friendly.
Still a bit shy and timid, perhaps.
But he finds it endearing.
Not an airy, sophisticated "woman of the world", so to speak like Lauren Bacall or Ingrid Bergman.
Just a . . .
"Would you like me to come up?"
. . . regular person.
Who . . .
"You know, to help you get settled?"
. . . is so very kind and considerate.
"No. Thank you, Miss Miller."
And apparently completely unawares of the lurking dangers . . .
"I'm not set up for guests and . . ."
. . . of the typical red-blooded American male.
". . . I think I'm really just going to lay down and rest, I think. I'm pretty tired."
The truth, it really is.
As well as . . .
"Alright then."
. . . his discomfort with having her see . . .
"Goodbye, Huck."
"Goodbye, Miss Miller."
"Grace."
"Grace."
. . . just how humble his own personal space really is.
That room at the top of the rickety wood stairs he won't be able to fix for a while with this shoulder of his.
It's really very small, this room.
Not his wounded shoulder.
It, at this moment, encompasses the entirety of his existence.
But the room.
It is rather small.
Four walls enclose it. Plain white walls, slightly cracked here and there.
Two windows.
Minimal furniture.
A small table.
Coffee pot and cup atop.
Radio as well.
Chair beside.
Circular rag rug on the otherwise bare hardwood floor.
Scratched three drawer dresser.
Narrow bed, covered with white chenille quilt.
Side table with lamp, small stack of paperbacks he's picked up since deciding he needed something to do other than stare at the window and pretend not to think of Ruth, Mildred.
They're separate women, separate times.
Their connection is that the thought of either of them cause him varying degrees of pain, feelings of rejection, resent-
So, the paperbacks.
Mostly five and dime detective reads.
Lately, a bit more daring, The Hobbit.
Anything to keep his lonely self occupied.
And away from drowning himself in the sea.
So, the room.
Not much else.
A tiny closet.
Minuscule bath with shower and commode and sink and window.
Not particularly spectacular.
Not particularly posh.
Not particularly anything.
And that's okay.
Things like that don't really matter to him.
Other than too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter.
But it's a long way from Germany and Italy and France.
And not too far from the ocean, whether Huck ever gives in to use it.
And not too far from the hospital where Huck has recently felt very used.
Twenty-five dollars a month, along with free yard maintenance and any house repairs Mrs. Graham requires.
Huck also provided a covered plate when he gets 'round to eating in the evenings.
And, of course . . .
"Is that you, Huck?"
"Yes, Mrs. Graham."
"You missed supper last night."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Graham. I . . . stayed overnight to attend to some matters at the hospital."
Not an exact lie.
"That's nice, dear. You're a good boy."
"Thank you, Mrs. Graham."
He only doesn't want to worry her.
"I'm going up to my room to rest, I think. I'm pretty tired."
"I'll have a plate made up for you tonight when you're ready."
Not until he has to.
"Thank you, Mrs. Graham."
"You're welcome, Huck. You're a good boy."
"Thank you, Mrs. Graham."
And then he goes up to his tiny one room apartment that is not covered in paisley flowered wallpaper, not reeking of sickness and antiseptic.
Lays himself carefully on his creaky, single bed . . .
I hope I wake up in time for that plate.
. . . and goes to straight to sleep.
Thank you to DinahRay for reviewing the previous chapter!
I know I said Huck would get better.
And he will.
I mean, not in the next chapter.
But he will.
