I do not own Ratched.
I do not own my angel boy Huck. But I love him.
Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale
Meet The Parents
He's as nervous as he's ever been in his entire life.
Sitting there is his newly washed-for-the-day's-outing car.
Sitting there in front of Grace's parents' home on a quiet, well established neighborhood street.
A lovely brick two story.
Deep porch. Eaves. Overflowing flowerpots.
And he's on time, well, a bit early.
Butterflies of nervousness and excitement all morning making his stomach churn more than a little.
And now he's nearly immobilized, frozen solid.
You be a gentleman now, Huck. You walk up and look her parents in the face. It'll remind you she's someone's little girl and not to be messed about.
Yes, Ma.
And so he does.
Even though he's terrified and fully expecting to see the revulsion on the faces of her parents.
Particularly her father who will not wish his younger daughter to be traipsing around with a man with the face of a monster.
But he makes himself go.
Because he wants to see Grace outside the hospital.
He wants to go on this picnic with Grace.
And most importantly he absolutely does not want to shame her or upset her being late or not arriving at all.
And so he takes a deep breath, reminds himself . . .
I know what I am.
I am a man.
. . . of what he is, what he chooses to be, . . .
A good man.
Because I choose to be.
. . . for yet another time.
My face does not change that.
And gets out of the car.
Halfway up the porch steps . . .
Grace.
. . . the instinct to run, fight or flight, is reaching almost unmanageable levels.
And then . . .
Okay. Cool it, Finnigan.
. . . he's there.
And ready to . . .
"Hello, Huck."
"Oh-"
. . . knock on the doorframe.
"-Grace. Hello. I didn't see you there."
And he hadn't.
So focused was he on surviving the journey to the door, surviving the mere thought of meeting the parents, and whoever else might be inside the house, he never even saw her.
Grace.
Sitting on the porch swing.
Oh.
Rarely has he seen her outside of uniform.
And now here she is.
Sitting upon the gently swinging porch swing, legs crossed modestly at the ankle.
A picture of beauty if he ever saw one.
Grace.
Softly curled strawberry blond hair.
Smiling blood-red lips.
Linen dress, under elbow length blue cardigan, white, embroidered with neat columns of small flowers of all colors.
Wooden buttons down the front of the bodice.
Skirt draping just down over her knees.
A simple, lovely, handmade garment.
The white shoes upon her feet are nearly flat, he just bets they won't click like gunshots when she walks.
And he thinks . . .
"I thought you might want to see a familiar face. Before seeing, you know, unfamiliar ones."
. . . she is the most beautiful thing . . .
"I do. Thank you."
. . . he has ever seen.
"You're welcome."
And then she pats the space next to her invitingly.
"Come sit with us."
Us.
The correct pronoun.
For on Grace's lap . . .
"This is Misty."
. . . is a kitten.
"Misty, this is my friend Huck. Say hello."
A little orange and white ball of fluff.
That, being gently stroked and scratched behind the ears, seems perfectly content to lay . . .
"Hello, Misty."
. . . on its back, all four paws up in the air . . .
"Nice to meet you."
. . . and stare at this new person carefully easing himself down on the left . . .
"I'm Huck."
. . . of her own belly scratching goddess.
"Are, uh, are your parents inside? Thought I'd meet them, you know, shake your dad's hand."
He clears his throat, refusing to let her blue-green-green-blue eyes make him lose his train of thought.
"You know, if you think that would be okay with them."
She smiles, so gently.
Kitten in her lap, all fuzzy and warm.
He's always thought, for months now, that she has a voice that she'd be soft and gentle with kittens.
And he was absolutely, positively, completely . . .
"Yes. I think they'd appreciate that very much."
. . . right.
"Just let me put Misty down."
And he thinks he's starting . . .
"Go on, Misty, go chase the butterflies."
. . . to love her for it.
She's opened the front door and entered the house.
"Daddy?"
And Huck Finnigan, nerves re-ajangle, has followed.
"Daddy, I've got someone here to meet you."
Though he does remember to wipe his feet . . .
"In here, Hun."
. . . before leaving the doorway.
It's very similar to Mrs. Graham's house in some respects.
Living room, sofas, chairs, Persian rug.
Lamps, sidetables.
Large floor radio against one wall.
And, there, in the middle of it all, an older man sitting with a newspaper.
His brown hair is streaked with gray and thinning a little on top.
He's average height sitting down and just a little potbellied.
He's wearing slacks and a gray vest and tie under his brown cardigan.
Polished brown shoes and a slightly grumpy expression, bushy eyebrows knitted together.
Huck can't really blame him, he's reading the newspaper.
Unless it's the funnies, it's probably nothing too heartwarming.
"Hey, Daddy."
And then he sees his daughter . . .
"Hey, Gracie girl."
. . . and it's as if . . .
She really does have that effect on everyone then.
. . . the clouds have lifted.
He immediately rises, folding the paper and tossing down it onto the chair under him as he goes.
She goes right to him, a quick hug, though Huck doesn't think it's been too long since she's seen him.
And then turns back to him, . . .
"Daddy, I'd like you to meet Huck Finnigan."
. . . Huck. Who's hanging slightly back and preparing himself for the worst.
"Huck, this is my father. Darren Miller."
And he's not allowing himself any chance but to . . .
"Hello, Mr. Miller."
. . . go.
"Nice to meet you."
He knows she's told them about his face.
And most likely, her sister has well.
But it's still a moment of intensive anxiety . . .
"Welllll, Huck. Pleasure to finally meet you."
. . . he comes full face to mangled face . . .
"Grace has told us so much."
. . . with the father of his, well, of Grace Miller.
"Thank you, sir. The pleasure's mine."
The handshake is firm but not crushing, as some men have a proclivity to do.
Assert their dominance as quickly as possible.
No, this a true man's handshake.
Firm, friendly.
Released in appropriate . . .
"I know you two have plans and all . . ."
. . . and timely manner.
". . . but why don't you sit down for a minute? Chat a little."
And Huck finds himself daring . . .
"Yes, sir. That'd be nice, thank you."
. . . to hope.
Grace has gone to the kitchen, returned with her mother.
"Huck, this is my mother, Joan Miller. Mom, this is Huck."
"Well, hello, Huck. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Thank you, ma'am. The pleasure's mine."
And now they're all seated facing each other.
Huck and Grace side by side on the sofa.
Mr. Miller, now returned to his chair, newspaper unretrieved.
And Mrs. Miller, more aged picture of her elder daughter than her younger, though the warmth of her smile does connect, . . .
"Grace has told us so much about you, Huck."
. . . perched on the arm of the chair.
"She says she you're an excellent head nurse."
Husband arm comfortably . . .
"Thank you. I, uh, I'm trying."
. . . serving as the perimeter.
"It seems like a difficult job. I tell Grace she can do whatever she wants but I can't imagine the stress of it day in and day out."
Huck's shoulder seems to twinge in agreement and he . . .
"It can be."
. . . nods in affirmation.
This from the mother.
And now an interjection from the father.
"Well, I say if he did his duty for our country and came back alive, . . ."
Not exactly gruff.
". . . well, he can work whatever job he wants to."
But very much adamant.
"Is this what you want to do, Mr. Finnigan? Be a head nurse of a mental hospital?"
And Huck, slowly coming to the realization he might not be as much of a social pariah as he was once led . . .
". . . really think you could find work anywhere but here with that Halloween mask for a face?"
. . . to believe.
"I, uh, I like helping people. Helping heal instead of hurt."
And this seems . . .
"Mmm, . . . now that's the mark of a good man there, Joan."
. . . to be a very satisfactory answer . . .
"Yes, I believe you're right, dear."
. . . indeed.
"I think you really impressed my parents, Huck."
They're driving along and it's just as enjoyable as he thought it'd be.
The winding road before them, blue sky above them.
Grace beside him.
And the radio . . .
. . . playing on low.
Not Bing or Billie.
". . . over a four leaf clover . . ."
Something else.
". . . overlooked before . . ."
Something light.
And he likes that . . .
"I just told the truth."
. . . just fine.
"You're such a good man, Huck."
"Thank you, Grace."
She's seating in the passenger seat, expanse of bench seat away from him.
As she should be, as is appropriate.
"You're very kind."
But she is shifted toward him, at an angle.
And everything is . . .
"I'm very honest, Huck."
. . . just fine indeed.
If the dad sounds familiar to you, he's based off the dad from A Christmas Story.
Because, well, the timeline fits and lord, I adored him.
Anyway, thanks to DinahRay for your previous review. You're a gem. :)
