I do not own Ratched.
I do not own my angel boy Huck. But I love him.
Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale
Lazy Day
It had been something of a week for St. Lucia's Head Nurse Huck Finnigan.
Him . . .
". . . me, you impertinent little shit! I am your superior!"
"Ms. Wells,-"
. . . and his staff.
" . . . stitches for that head, Tom."
"Who knew that Negro bitch had such an aim on her, huh?"
I did.
He had done his best.
"Huck, dear boy, do you have any idea why that indian boy is down in the barn again?"
"His name is Peter, Nurse Bucket."
Peter, Nurse Bucket. It's not that hard to remember.
To be calm.
"-late at night, Huck. I'm not a phone operator."
"I apologize, Mrs. Graham. Sometimes someone from the hospital needs me."
Please stop banging on the handrail with that cane.
Patient.
"Good morning, William Holden."
"Good morning, Mrs. Kee. And it's Huck, remember?"
Abbott and Costello, that's us.
Professional.
" . . . -day off? Nurse Miller gets Saturdays off."
"I didn't set the nurses' schedule. I've continued the nurses' schedule as it was already set."
If you recall.
And now . . .
"So, what do you plan on doing this weekend, Huck?"
Finding some peace and quiet, I hope.
"Well, I was thinking it might be a nice weekend to go fishing."
. . . it was finally over.
"Oh, that does sound nice."
"Would you like to come with me?"
And Huck is ready . . .
"I'd love to. But only if you don't mind the company."
. . . for a little relaxation.
"I could never mind your company, Grace."
In the California sunshine.
"Then we'll call it a date?"
"Yes, . . ."
The kind of California sunshine he watches Grace's everready smile blossom in . . .
". . . that sounds swell."
. . . right now.
That smile that always makes him warmer inside.
Happier.
More peaceful.
"I'll pick you up Saturday after lunch?"
"I'll be ready."
It really is just a fishing date.
Huck Finnigan knows he can't have borne being sly and suggestive toward Grace Miller if his life depended on it.
And so . . .
"I suppose we should be getting back to work then."
"Yes. I suppose we should."
. . . he and his blue-green-green-blue eyed girl . . .
"Goodbye, Huck."
. . . reluctantly part ways.
"Have a nice day, Grace."
At least until the following day.
One o'clock in the warm, sunny afternoon and Huck Finnigan's jaw is hovering somewhere in vicinity of the paved sidewalk of Darren Miller's humble abode.
Two story brick, third story attic.
Towering yet cozy.
Misty the now somewhat larger kitty purring around his ankles.
And yet all he can see . . .
"Hello, Huck."
. . . is her.
"H-hello, Grace."
Strawberry-blond hair peeking out from under a floppy straw sunhat.
Lovely eyes sparkling gayily above a neat, short-sleeved, white collared blouse.
Tucked into boxy jeans.
Above rolled bobby socks and saddle shoes.
Blood-red lips smiling at the sight of him.
Huck.
Brown-checked, short sleeved shirt, belted slacks.
Brown oxfords and watch and scars.
And his only hint that his jaw is hanging agape . . .
"What is it?"
"Oh, uh, nothing."
. . . is the slight pause in her advancement toward him.
"Sorry. I just . . ."
And the slightly bewildered question.
". . . you . . ."
To which he can only attempt to fix his face and answer . . .
"You look beautiful, Grace."
. . . in truth.
The blush that touches her porcelain features only serves to beautify her even further.
"Thank you. You said 'fishing', right?"
And make him stumble across his words even more.
"Ye-yeah. Yes. I've, uh, I've got the poles in the trunk."
As she reaches him.
"Bait?"
And he, in lingering awe, accepts . . .
"Worms."
. . . the peck she lightly bestows upon . . .
"Sounds delightful."
. . . his smooth cheek.
"Let's go."
The day is perfect, California summer sunshine.
Fat puffy clouds floating lazily across an azure sky.
Dragonflies and butterflies flitting here and there and yonder without a care.
And Huck Finnigan, back against a pond's edge tree.
Pole in the water.
Breeze rippling the surface into sparkling diamonds.
And he finds it so . . .
This is much better.
. . . very soothing.
He isn't an intensive fisherman, Huck Finnigan
He could care less whether or not a fish wriggles on the end of his fishing line today.
In fact, he suspects, correctly as it turns out, that the little nibblers are sneakily partaking of his poor, drowned worm just beyond his sight.
Without twitching the pole at all.
Which doesn't really bother him in the slightest.
Grace is on the other side of the roughly oval-shaped pond.
Observing the sky and land around them in this quiet little tucked peacefulness.
More than the fish-inhabited water before her.
He thinks she is the same mind as him.
Which makes him even more sanguine and happy than he'd already felt.
She turns her head toward him now, dazzling eyes hidden behind protective glasses.
A smile softly blossoms and he knows it's for him.
And he gifts for one for her in return.
Several moments before her gaze shifts again.
Back to the pole stuck and still in the water.
And Huck Finnigan continues to smile drowsily at the woman he must confess to himself if no one else quite yet . . .
I love this.
. . . that he loves.
Even as his loose-fingered grip on them ash pole relaxes further.
And his eyes . . .
I love her.
. . . slip closed.
-more minutes, Ma.
Nonsense, Harold.
But that isn't right.
His mother mostly ever calls him Huck.
And he can't remember a time when he hadn't woken himself up, bright and early.
To do some needed chore.
Study for school.
Read.
Or simply, . . .
"Hello, Huck Finnigan."
. . . be present in the day that was arriving . . .
"Hello, Grace."
. . . because it was time for him to do so.
Except that isn't right either.
It isn't morning.
And he is not at home.
Huck Finnigan is somewhere outside.
With a sun easing its path down along the afternoon sky.
And there is a beautiful young woman . . .
"You were sleeping. Sorry to wake you."
. . . hovering above him.
"But I just couldn't resist."
Who has gently awakened him.
"That's alright."
Not with words, so far as he has been aware.
"I didn't mean to doze."
But with a gentle touch.
"I guess I was tired."
Her gentle fingers.
"I imagine so. It's been quite a week."
Through his now slightly mussed hair.
"Yes," he admits, pleased and dopey smile forming on his serene face. "But it's getting better."
Her already beatific smile brightens further.
"I'm glad."
And she leans over, soft strawberry blond waves spilling over her shoulder.
And brushes her lips softly against his.
And Huck . . .
Grace . . .
. . . lets her.
The day is waning, no fish have been caught.
Huck Finnigan and his sweetheart Grace Miller are easing to a stop on the curb next to her house once again.
"So, I've been meaning to ask, um, I've really been wanting to for some time now . . ."
To say Huck is waiting with baited breath would be an understatement.
"Yes?"
Having absolutely no idea whatsoever what his blushing sweetheart . . .
"Well, . . ."
. . . might be gearing up to say next.
"I was wondering . . . if I could meet your mother sometime?"
He doesn't know what he thought she would say.
Knows it sure wasn't this.
But finds himself . . .
"I don't see any reason why not."
. . . quietly delighted.
"I'll ring her up and ask her. If you like."
And Grace smiles.
"Yes. That would be wonderful."
And asks . . .
"Would you like to join us for dinner, Huck?"
. . . yet another question.
"Sure. That'd be swell."
"Not a fish caught, eh?'
And Huck might seem caught.
"No, sir. Guess they just weren't biting."
If he had anything, . . .
"Yeah, I can guess why."
. . . to be caught about.
"Wouldn't be, uh, . . ."
But Huck Finnigan hasn't laid an errant finger on Grace.
Or any other body part save for his lips.
On her lips.
As chaste as he can manage.
". . . a certain young man associated with my baby girl . . ."
Because though he is physically attracted to her.
". . . was, uh, . . ."
He also respects her.
And nothing, . . .
". . . sleeping on the job, . . ."
. . . nothing, is going to trump . . .
". . . was he?"
. . . that.
Still, Huck's relief is palpable.
And as Joan Miller shakes her find head at her husband.
"Yes, sir . . ."
And the newly dinner-dressed Grace . . .
"Daddy-"
. . . mirrors the action.
And Huck . . .
". . . that's just about it."
. . . meets the older man's knowing gaze . . .
"Mmm hmm."
. . . straight on.
"I figured."
And then Darren Miller smiles.
"I've spent many a lazy afternoon napping by the water myself, son."
Forks another mouthful of mashed potato.
"Some of the best days of my life."
And that . . .
"Yes, sir. They are."
. . . is that.
Except of course it isn't.
Huck is saying his goodbyes, . . .
". . . meal, Mrs. Miller. It was delicious."
"You're welcome, Huck. It was my pleasure."
. . . preparing to depart the Miller residence.
"Goodbye, Mr. Miller. Thank you for inviting me into your home."
"Most welcome, Huck. Pleasure to've had you."
Amicable handshakes exchanged.
And then Darren Miller doesn't let go.
Instead, . . .
"You seem like a good man, Huck. My daughter trusts you."
. . . pulls him a touch closer.
"And I trust my daughter."
Not unpleasantly so.
"Her mother and I, well, mostly her mother, raised her right."
Not an attempt at intimidation.
"So that means I'm going to trust you."
Just enough to talk.
"Until you give me a reason not to."
Man to man.
"You understand, son?"
And Huck . . .
"Yes, sir. I do."
. . . respects him for it.
"Good. Grace?"
Huck is released.
"Yes, Daddy?"
And subsequently transferred . . .
"Come show your fella out for the night."
"Okay, Daddy."
"I'm going read the paper. Goodnight, Huck."
. . . into the care of his sweetheart.
"Goodnight, Mr. Miller."
And then that, . . .
"Come on, Huckleberry. I'll walk you to the car."
. . . truly is . . .
"Yes, ma'am."
. . . that.
I think it's been about a hundred years since I posted anything. Well, maybe a little over three months.
At any rate, I hope there's people still out there that are looking to read my stuff. If not, that's alright and hope you enjoy whatever it is you are reading.
Thanks to DinahRay and Conbird for encouraging me to continue writing, or actually, begin writing again.
See you soon!
