I do not own Ratched.

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

Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale

Beautiful Day


They're walking along together.

And Huck feels both ten feet tall.

"That's, uh, that's a real pretty dress, Grace."

"Thank you. I made it myself."

And humbly grateful to be escorting such a beautiful lady.

They're arm in arm, Grace having placed herself to his right, and slipped her left arm shyly through his.

Huck, carrying the picnic basket she's brought in his left hand.

Huck in his blue button-up short sleeve shirt.

Slacks.

Brown oxfords.

Not a speck of white leather or sea-green, seasickening uniform about him.

It's okay for work, he supposes.

I don't know who chose that color. I don't think it's as soothing as someone thinks.

But this . . . this . . . this is . . .

"Beautiful day."

"Yes. It is."


The picnic is wonderful.

The warm weather perfect, sunny with only a few lazy clouds drifting across the baby blue sky.

Just enough of a breeze to keep away the bugs.

Grace has spread an honest-to-goodness red and white checked blanket on the grassy knoll overlooking the ocean.

And brought out their feast.

Ham and cheese sandwiches.

A bowl of fruit salad.

Potato chips. Dill pickles.

And of course . . .

"Do you like strawberry?"

"Yeah. It's great."

. . . a small pie.


They sit and they eat and they chat.

Huck feels as though he can barely take his eyes off of her.

Grace, with the blue of the sky and the green of the grass making her blue-green-green-blue eyes more fascinating than ever.

Gazing out at him out of her lovely oval face, framed by softly curled strawberry-blond hair.

Gentle, friendly, fond smile.

"I'm glad you're here, Huck."

And he's really, really, really . . .

"Me too. This is nice. Thank you."

. . . happy he is here too.


"May I ask you a question, Huck? About your face?"

They're sitting together on the blanket.

Huck and Grace.

Cross-legged and tilted demurely to the side, respectfully.

And Huck, having learned to trust her and have a little hope, . . .

"Sure."

. . . does not flinch away as she studies him.

"Does it hurt at all? Inside? Or out? Does it hurt to touch?"

She asks it softly and he feels like she's only asking to understand him better.

So he doesn't duck or draw away.

"No."

He's shaking his head, that half numb thing that feels so weird, will always feel so weird.

"The doctors said the nerve damage was so bad, I wouldn't really feel much of anything anymore."

That he makes himself accept . . .

"Sometimes it . . . pulls kind of. On the other side."

. . . as part of who he is . . .

"But not too bad."

. . . now.

"Can I . . . may I . . . touch it?"

She's touched his face before, impulsively it seemed, when she was emphasizing to him just how much of a decent man he still was despite everything.

"I . . . I won't if you don't want me to. I know I did before without asking, I just . . ."

And he realizes that yes, he very badly wants her to touch his face again.

"I don't mean to offend."

No matter how strange it may feel to him. Because it's her.

"No. I mean, yes, it's okay."

And she, looking straight into his eyes with her blue-green-green-blue ones and he still can't figure out which color they predominantly are.

"You can touch my face."

She slowly raises her right hand, with its blood-colored nails and its thin gold plated windup watch.

He can't feel it, her touch, not really, not clearly.

More like trying to see underwater.

He knows something is there but he can't quite make out what it is.

On the cheek.

Up to the hairline, where he begins to feel more clearly.

The twisted remains of his deaf ear.

And down to his jaw.

"It feels thick. Waxy."

And she inspecting it closely. Not with revulsion or pity, just . . .

"And your eye?"

. . . curiosity and care, he thinks.

"Can you see anything with it?"

He shakes his head a little.

"No. It's, uh, . . . it's blind."

Feels that unfamiliar pressure move with it.

"And your ear? Can you hear out of it?"

The side of his head, brushing the hair he must keep so neatly cut.

"No."

So it won't grow scraggled and uneven from around the scar tissue.

"Just . . ."

And she looking at him, really looking at him.

Like a woman who's simply . . .

". . . sense vibrations."

. . . looking with interest at a man.

He feels lost in her eyes. He feels found.

He feels accepted by her.

And he doesn't really imagine how . . .

"Okay."

. . . he really deserves it.


When it's time to go, he helps her gather up their things.

Drapes the picnic blanket over his left arm.

And Grace . . .

"Thank you for spending the afternoon with me, Huck."

. . . tucks her left arm into . . .

"The, uh, the pleasure is all mine, Grace."

. . . his right.


He doesn't drive slow to take her home.

But he definitely doesn't drive fast to rush her there.

The afternoon is waning and he's not fighting it.

Vaguely he wonders to himself if he can watch the stars with her some evening, the moon overhead.

This being their first date, he wants to have her home at a proper time so her folks won't wonder what they're out doing.

But the thought makes him smile.

Well, makes him smile more.

On the sidewalk of her parents' house, he opens the door for her and walks with her up the steps.

Not wanting to go but just happy for the day that was had.

At the door, they stopped and At the door, they stop and turn to each other.

"This was a wonderful afternoon, Huck. "

He nods.

"Perhaps we could do it again sometime."

Feeling the slightest bit shy.

"I'd like that very much."

And she lingers.

"Well . . . I suppose . . ."

And he lingers.

". . . I'll see you at work tomorrow?"

And then, . . .

"Yes."

. . . perhaps sensing this is all there will be to their conclusion today, . . .

"And lunch?"

. . . steps back.

"I'll save you a seat."

Puts a hand on the door . . .

"Well . . . good evening, Huck."

"Good evening, Grace."

. . . and goes . . .

"Drive safely."

"I will."

. . . inside.

Huck Finnigan stands where he is for a moment.

Full of contentment and secret happiness.

"Good night, Grace."

And heads back down the steps . . .

Sweet dreams.

. . . to his car.


I need some lightness and ease and this was it.I hope I can pass it along.

Thank you to DinahRay for previously reviewing. You're the best.