I do not own Ratched.

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

Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale

Mr. and Mrs. Miller


"Thank you for agreeing to give me some of your time, Mr. Miller, Mrs. Miller."

They, Grace's parents, nod, but do not speak.

Sitting much as they did in the their first meeting.

Mother, apron removed and left in the kitchen, perched lightly on one arm of the chair in which her husband resides.

His arm comfortably around her.

Both expressions expectant as Huck composes himself, his thoughts.

Looking to his hands, scarred and unscarred, clasped together to keep them from shaking.

They know, they must know.

He doesn't intrude, he never asserts an audience of just the three of them.

And if Grace's lovely, oval face ever matches the soft, contented happiness that he sees reflected in his own mirror at night, . . .

I love her. She loves me.

I dreamed, I hoped.

I never truly believed.

. . . they must have at least a hint of what he's about to say.

"Mr. Miller, Mrs. Miller, I want to thank you for inviting me into your home. Being so welcoming of me all these months. Even though . . . I look . . . the way I do. It's, uh, it's meant more to me than I can tell you."

If he can only say it.

And he can. He will.

But he must say all these other things first.

Because they are important as well.

So he keeps steady.

"I love Grace. She means everything in the world to me. She's intelligent, she's kind. She's . . . she's the most wonderful person I have ever had the joy of knowing."

Mrs. Miller's face, an older version of the daughter Huck so dearly loves, . . . tilts just a little, softens.

And Huck realizes . . .

"And I wanted to come here today to ask your permission and blessing . . ."

. . . they knew . . .

". . . in asking Grace to marry me."

. . . the second they saw his face.

"I know we've only been courting six months and I'm not properly set with a house for her, but I know there's nothing I want more than to spend the rest of my life with her. Taking care of her, providing for her, doing everything I can to make her happy."

And then, because he has said all the truth he knows, Huck Finnigan falls silent.

And waits.

He sees the corner of Mr. Miller's mouth turn up, sees him look toward his wife and her to him.

Sees something unspoken pass between them in that moment.

And the slightest of nods from her to him.

And then sees them both look back to him.

It's Mr. Miller who speaks, quiet and soft and almost reverent.

Fiddling with the fabric of the chair in which he is seated as he does so.

"When, uh, I met Joan here, I was living in a toolshop in my brother's backyard. I didn't have a job and I certainly didn't have a vehicle, of course, it was different times back there. I wasn't a bum, I did random work enough to buy a sandwich and coke when I got hungry."

Eyes concentrated upon his thickened fidgeting fingers.

"She came over with a girlfriend to talk to my brother. I remember looking at her and looking, oh boy, this is it. This is what I want."

He smiles then, eyes distant and sentimental.

"So I got up, got myself a stable job and set to becoming the man I needed to be in order to win this lovely lady over and make her a good husband."

He nods, almost to himself and then redirects his clear-eyed gaze to Huck.

"She's my little girl, Mr. Finnigan. She's precious to me and I want her to have a good life, the kind of life she wants, with the kind of man she wants."

And smiles.

"And I can't think of a single person better for my Grace than you."


Huck Finnigan hasn't shed a tear, though Mrs. Miller has shed a few.

Mr. Miller seems to be sniffing a touch more than usual.

And the tight anxiety in Huck's chest is gone.

Replaced by a warmth and fullness that he believes he will carry with him for quite some time.

He has been hugged by the bright-eyed Mrs. Miller.

Shaken hands with Mr. Miller and received a warm, accepting squeeze to the left shoulder, along with a sniffing nod and a smile.

And feels rich beyond measure of these gifts.

Even more so when . . .

"Grace is actually at the neighbor's house helping her clean. Would you like me to call her over?"

. . . Mrs. Miller . . .

"Sure. That'd be swell. Thank you."

. . . sets the plan further in motion.


"Oh, Huck! Hello!"

She seems pleasantly surprised by his presence.

"What're you doing here?"

Though not that surprised.

"I, uh, I just stopped by to speak with your parents."

He says it normally, he says it calmly, without any emphasis on any particular words to alert her to his meaning.

And yet . . .

"Oh."

. . . her cheeks blush so prettily she surely must have already surmised the entire thing.

"Yes."

And she self-consciously moves a hand to her hair.

That beautiful strawberry blond hair.

Not perfectly curled and coiffed as he so often sees her.

For he has caught her on Mrs. Garvey's cleaning day, the widow across the street whose arthritic hands pain her so that Grace takes it upon herself to help her clean a bit once or twice a week.

Aforementioned locks caught up in a hankerchief, tied up in rabbit ears on the top of her head.

Only the barest amount of makeup upon her lovely face.

Fliched button-up plaid shirt from her father's old trunk tucked into dungarees above the pedal pushers she worn on their fishing pond expedition.

She is dressed for spring cleaning, not receiving company.

And Huck . . .

"Grace, . . ."

. . . thinks she has never looked more beautiful.

". . . you are the most beautiful, most intelligent, kindest person I have ever known in my entire life. I love you more than I could ever say."

Even as he gets down on one knee.

"Will you marry me?"

And presents to her the box.

"Oh, Huck."

Held in his scarred left hand, opening it with his unscarred right.

"It's beautiful."

And it is.

Thin, golden band, three actually, fused into one at the center.

Vertical line of five small pearls angled ever so delicately with the flow of the finger.

Flanked on either side by similarly structured bands of small, sparkling diamonds.

A lovely piece.

Simple and beautiful.

Just like he had wanted.

And Grace's blue-green-green-blue eyes are shimmering . . .

"Yes, Huck, I will marry you."

. . . as she holds out her trembling left hand.

And Huck slips the ring. . .

Not hardly loose or tight at all. That jeweler was good.

. . . on her third finger.

He rises then and she's in his arms immediately.

Arms tight around his neck.

Kissing him with lips that aren't blood red.

Kissing him and though it takes his breath away as it does every time . . .

Um, Grace?

. . . he's still well aware . . .

They're . . .

. . . her parents are observing . . .

They're watching us.

. . . the whole thing.

And finally she lets him go.

Sort of.

Only to lay her hankerchiefed head on his shoulder.

Body warm against his.

Blush practically pouring off him.

As he turns to the clearly amused parents.

Mr. and Mrs. Miller, man with one arm lightly around his own wife.

Woman slightly turned into her own husband, arms wrapped around her middle.

And Huck mildly confesses the truth to them.

"I, uh, I did sort of ask her a few nights ago while we were dancing. I didn't mean to misled you."

Mr. Miller smiles.

"Well, of course you did, son. It's her choice, after all."

And Huck Finnigan . . .

"I'm just glad you talked to us as well. Shows your integrity and good intentions."

. . . feels more than a little . . .

Son.

. . . relieved.

"Would anyone like some coffee?"

"That would be great, Mrs. Miller. Thank you."


Anybody else have a smile on their faces right now or is it just me?

:D

Thanks for reading and thanks to DinahRay for so kindly reviewing.