I do not own Ratched.

I do not own my angel boy Huck. But I love him.

Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale

The Truth


So they have now been talking here and there.

Mostly lunches, short periods of time.

At the same table even.

Grace has found out he has a proclivity for sweet apples.

He has found out she prefers the citrus burst of a good orange.

That she has a married with kids older sister and that she herself still lives with her parents.

And she has already met his Mrs. Graham.

They have chatted, they have laughed, they have smiled.

Light conversation.

Almost a week, it's been.

Easily his favorite part of any day.

He cannot remember the last time he smiled so much as he has in the past week at lunches.

It pulls on his face, the working side.

Not pain, just a pulling.

But he doesn't mind.

Because his heart feels lighter too.

And he's been thinking about the ocean less.

And because of this, because of her, he has been avoiding talking about her.

But now the time has come to confess.

Because she's reached out in a moment of shared amusement, Grace has.

Some silly little thing he said.

Reached out and covered his unscarred hand with her own.

Blue-green-green-blue eyes beautiful and enchanting.

Laughter light and feminine in the waning summer sun.

And he withdraws almost instantly.

It really is unfair, that he's leading her on.

Without all the information.

And Huck Finnigan draws a deep breath in.

"Grace, I need to tell you something."

This is going to hurt for him to say.

It's going to hurt for her to hear.

But he doesn't want to lead her on.

She's so young and fresh and innocent.

He needs her to know so she can make good decisions for herself.

"There's another reason I was avoiding you before."

Yes, he was. Avoiding her.

"I was . . . married. Before.'

And she stares at him, pretty painted lips parting slightly, probably in shock, he thinks.

"Ruth. We were . . . high school sweethearts."

"You're just the bee's knees, Harold."

"Right backatcha, doll."

"Oh, Harold."

Grace's pretty face is blank as he's spilling his guts.

He knows what she's thinking, spoiled goods.

So he looks away in order to keep talking.

"I was 22. She was 20. I was working at a factory. She was keeping house."

He pauses, swallows.

"We'd been married for about a year, talking about having a baby."

His mouth is dry but he's drunk all his soda pop.

"Then the war came along and I got drafted and, well . . ."

He realizes he's anxiously rubbing the scars on his left hand with his right and forces himself to stop.

"When I came back . . . like this . . ."

There is a lump in his throat now, getting larger. Harder to ignore.

He's never told this story to another person except his mother, and that just the one time.

"Oh, Harold. I'm so sorry, son."

"I know, Ma."

And he never wanted to tell it again.

But this . . .

". . . she, uh, . . ."

. . . matters.

He tries to smile again but it's sick and painful and he can't make eye contact with her and so he just concentrates on the green metal Art Deco table top.

"She couldn't handle it. Couldn't look me in the eye or stand my touch or . . ."

Tried, he had tried so hard to make it be okay.

"Ruthie, it's okay. It doesn't hurt so much. Not anymore. It's, you know, just . . . look, it's okay. Everything's going to get better. You'll see."

'Harold, people stare at us. At you. People whisper. And you're different now, you're not who you used to be. And I can't . . . I know it's not your fault . . . I'm sorry, I just . . ."

He swallows again.

Really needs a drink of, well, a drink of something.

Doubts his anxious hands would be steady enough to keep from spilling it anyway.

And forces himself to finish the damn awful story.

"We tried for six months. I was sleeping in the spare room, trying to find stable work . . ."

And finally, in a flat voice that he tries not to sound too self-pitying, finishes it.

"We divorced. Spring of '46. She kept the house. I moved here."

And then that's it. That's the end of the story.

He lets silence fall.

Because there's nothing more to tell.

Except Grace . . .

"Did you love her?"

. . . seems to think there is.

A rueful smile pulls at the corner of his half ruined mouth.

And he has to tell the truth, what sort of man would he be otherwise.

"She was my wife. Of course I loved her."

And he wonders what the next thing is she will say.

Or if she will simply remove herself from his presence without any more words . . .

"Do you love her now?"

. . . at all.

He considers this.

Shakes his head.

"There was too much pain, too much bitterness by the end. I had tried so hard and I know it wasn't her fault . . . the way I look-"

And it is to this that she reacts emotionally.

Not the humiliating revelation that she has been attempting to cavort with a divorced man.

But . . .

"Forgive me, Huck, . . ."

. . . this.

". . . but it certainly was her fault. My grandfather was kicked in the head by a horse when I was a child. After that, it was like he was a child himself. He had to be told to do anything. Sometimes he didn't even know where he was. My grandmother didn't toss him aside like a worn-out sock. She loved him and tried to do her best by him. Sometimes love is a feeling, Huck. And sometimes it's a choice."

She reaches out then. Places a hand to his face.

Right against the hard, knotted flesh of the ruined left side of his face.

Where he can't feel.

But that overwhelms him with swelling emotion anyway.

"And there is no doubt in my mind that Ruth made the wrong choice, Huck."

And he tries to brush it aside.

The emotions, not the gentle touch he can't feel.

"She shouldn't have stayed with me out of pity, Grace. That's no way for her to live. Or me. Or anyone."

It's meant as a gently direct point to her.

And a flicker of irritation darkens Grace's oval face and Huck's heart sinks as he regrets upsetting her.

She squints her pretty eyes at him and when she speaks, her voice is just the slightest bit hard.

Emphatic, he guess he'd say.

"It's not about pity, Huck. You're a good man. Any woman would be lucky to call you her husband. Your scars don't change that."

And Huck Finnigan tries . . .

"Thank you, Grace. That's, uh, that's very nice of you to say."

. . . not to cry.

"It's not nice of me to say, Huck. It's not pity. It's the truth."

Though it's a close thing.


Thank you to DinahRay for being so constant in regard to this story this far.

Now that we've got that taken care of, ready for some fun?