I do not own Ratched.

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

Huck Finnigan Lived Again: A Ratched Fairytale

Huck and Grace Make Plans


"I know the date of our wedding, Huck."

She says it so casually after Sunday dinner one afternoon in April.

They're sitting on the porch swing, little Misty in her lap.

And a cool spring breeze wafting across their faces.

And now he raises his face to her, from the pure white cat that has grown so much in the seven months he's known her.

To the blue-green-green-blue eyes of his sweetheart.

Who has somehow become even more beautiful in the seven months he's known her.

Who is gazing at him with a small, secret smile upon her bloodred lips.

"September 4."

And Huck wonders why she would pull such an arbitrary date out of the air.

And then . . .

"But Grace, . . . that was the day Charlotte Wells shot me. It was a horrible day. I almost died."

He isn't speaking harshly or demeaning.

Only slightly bewildering and in confusion.

Grace however, seems confident as she nods.

"I know, Huck."

Closes a warm hand over his scarred one.

"And now we're going to make it a wonderful one."

And against that sweet smile and those dazzling eyes, . . .

"Every day with you is a wonderful day, Grace."

"Thank you, Huck. I feel the same way about you."

. . . he feels it might really be true.


And that's not all Grace knows.

"I've decided what I want to do after the wedding, Huck."

He hopes it's go on a honeymoon with him.

"Okay."

But he's not going to force the issue.

And Grace smiles.

"I want to keep our house. I want to be the wife you deserve, have meals ready at the end of the day. I want to make a home for us."

Huck is instantly uncomfortable with this.

It sounds great, sure.

Gentle, sweet Grace to ease and rejuvenate his worn soul at the end of the day.

But it also sounds like everything Betsy Bucket is expecting her to do for him and for him to not even appreciate.

Not that he ever would fail to appreciate her.

But he fears she might be giving up her for life.

And he worries that would make her unhappy.

But he trusts Grace, Huck does, trusts that she knows what she wants.

And whatever she wants, he wants for her.

And so despite his misgivings and hesitations, Huck nods.

"If that's what you want, Grace."

Her smile is soft and beautiful.

"It is."

And he hopes . . .

"Okay."

. . . that it is.


Huck has appreciated a roof over his head.

Small and patched as it is.

The room Mrs. Graham has so graciously rented to him for the last few years has been sufficient for him.

For a while, it was all he could manage.

As he worked to put his life back together after losing his face and losing his wife.

Everything essentially but his life.

The smaller the space, the less empty.

At least on the outside.

As time had gone on, it had simply been practical.

A single man, which is what I am, how much space does he really need?

It is still a practical place.

But not . . .

Grace is going to be my wife.

I'm going to be her husband.

. . . for much longer.

They could live there, in that room above the garage, have a roof over their heads.

But it's not a home to raise a family in.

A family.

With Grace.

Which, in time, he really . . .

I could be a father.

. . . hopes may come to pass.

And he realizes he really should have a talk.

Grace.

With the woman he loves.


"I don't think we'll both be able to fit in your garage apartment, Huck."

And he looks up from his afternoon work sandwich.

She's blushing again, so prettily he can barely stand it.

She seems to be blushing a lot these days.

And Huck has a feeling . . .

She's going to be my wife.

I'm going to be her husband.

. . . he knows why.

"Not that I mind a small place," she amends quickly, as if suddenly he's going to completely change his understanding of her and what kind of person she is and what it is she wants.

"It's just that, well, . . ."

And Huck shakes his head.

"No, I agree. I've been thinking about it too."

And grins, small and doting behind his closed lips.

"Plus, as much as I like her, I don't relish the idea of Mrs. Graham banging on the handrail with her cane when we're . . . when we're home."

At this, her light blush imitates a summer beach sunburn.

And Huck feels his face growing hot as well.

"Well, perhaps we would do well to consider other options then."

"Yeah. I think we should."


Glad to be back! Hope you're still interested in this story.

Thanks to DinahRay for reviewing the previous chapter so long ago. :)