I do not own Ratched.
I do not own my angel boy Huck. But I love him.
Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale
Reaching Out
He leaves St. Lucia, drives numb straight to her house.
Forgets he's usually nervous and knocks on the front porch door without hesitation.
Joan comes to the door . . .
"Hello, Huck. Surprise to see you here. How are you?"
"I'm fine, thank you, Mrs. Miller. Is Grace here?"
. . . with a brittling smile and a growing aura of concern for him . . .
"Yes, she's out back with the laundry. Is everything alright?"
"May I see her, please?"
. . . or of him.
"Yes, go on."
And Huck can't really think to consider how curt he's being, the strain that is evident upon his scarred face.
"It's right through the kitchen there."
And he goes, a straight line from entryway to kitchen to backdoor flung open to steps down the yard to . . .
"Huck, hello, what are you doing here?"
. . . the clothesline.
The basket of clothes on the ground.
And Grace.
Her.
And he can't talk, he can't think, he can't abide a moment more, especially now that he's seen her.
"Huck?"
He's rarely so bold.
Presumptive to her allowance.
Especially in front of her mother.
But Huck Finnigan is most definitely not alright at the moment.
"Huck, . . ."
And the only thing he can think of in the entire world would be . . .
". . . are you alright?"
. . . to wrap his arms around her and . . .
"Huck?"
. . . take comfort in holding her close.
So he does.
He goes gently, but desperately.
He goes and he reaches out and she reaches back.
"Huck, did something happen?"
And wraps his whole arms around her slender, warm body.
One hand sliding up into the fall of her waved strawberry blond hair.
The other wrapped around her so tight he should apologize and relent.
Bodies pressed full-length to one another.
But it's not like that.
It's not.
It's-
"Is something wrong?"
He can't breath, his chest is tight and burning.
And he's shaking himself apart to pieces inside.
Outside, his eyes are squeezed shut tight.
As such, he cannot see the surprise on her face, the alarm, the concern.
"Is your mother alright?"
But he can hear them in her voice.
Feel them in her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders.
And he tries . . .
"Huck?"
. . . to deny the tears burning in his eyes.
Grace's mother, a more mature version of her daughter's face a furrow of concern, . . .
". . . -ee, Huck?"
. . . has watched the entire scene in silence.
And then, when Huck Finnigan has managed to release his embrace of her youngest child, . . .
"Yes, Mrs. Miller. Thank you."
. . . she invites them both in to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
They are both dreadfully pale by the time Huck finishes the recounting.
These two women he has intruded on.
Their coffee cups, and his, cooling in their hands.
And Huck shouldn't have told them, shouldn't have said.
Shouldn't have kept everything locked up nice and tight.
The way he had trained himself to do.
Back before Grace.
And he knows, he knows, he shouldn't have said.
"Oh Huck."
But he did.
"What a horrible burden to have to carry upon one's shoulders."
And he can't take it back now.
"His."
And then he realizes . . .
"And yours."
. . . he doesn't really . . .
"How good of you . . ."
. . . have to shred himself with guilt.
". . . to care so much to try and reach out to him."
Because though they both bright-eyed with tears . . .
"Especially with the memories it brought back for you yourself."
. . . the Miller women . . .
"I just don't know if it will be enough."
. . . are tough in their own way.
"Do you think there is something that can be done?"
And Huck realizes . . .
"Someone who could help?"
. . . he has chosen exactly the right people . . .
"I don't know."
. . . to whom to spill his guts.
"But I think there surely there must be."
And if anything can be done . . .
"Let me think it on it."
. . . it would be them . . .
"Thank you, Mrs. Miller."
. . . that would think it up.
And you just know they will.Because they're them. :)
