I do not own Ratched.
I do not own my angel boy Huck. But I love him.
Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale
There Are No Ghosts of The Past At This Wedding; Nor Should There Be
He's getting married, Huck Finnigan is.
This very day, in fact.
In just a few short hours.
Early morning and he's standing before the tiny mirror in the bathroom of his above the garage apartment.
Standing there, staring at his reflection.
And feeling . . .
I'm getting married today.
I'm getting married to Grace today.
. . . it is all so surreal.
He's taken a shower, shaved the side of his fact that grows hair, washed his face and neck.
Carefully, meticulously as he always does, through all the scarred and gnarled grooves and nooks and crannies.
Even into the cavity of his deaf ear.
He's always so careful, he absolutely refuses to look disheveled and unkempt, even if only half his face exists for him.
Determined to put his best face, such as it is, forward.
His best face . . .
Grace loves this face.
. . . with which he will live . . .
And she sees the man underneath it.
. . . the rest of his life.
Brushed his hair, applied Murray's to keep it just right.
And dressed in his nicest clothes, what he will change into afterward for the trip down the coast.
His only suit. Grey, double-breasted. Red and pink and blue geometrically designed tie.
In the bag hanging on the hook, his wedding attire.
Black pants, black socks, black shoes, white shirt, black bow tie.
White dinner jacket.
And Huck Finnigan . . .
I'm going to marry Grace.
. . . could not be more . . .
Grace is going to marry me.
. . . ready.
"Huck! Huck!"
It's not a ear-blistering shout but a conspiratorial whisper.
He's driven over by himself.
Mother insisting . . .
"You go ahead, Huck. Margery and I . . ."
Margery?
". . . have some things to finish up here. We'll be right along."
So he is . . .
Margery.
I'll be.
. . . all alone.
"Huck!"
Or has been.
"Huck!"
He looks up from his approach to Grace's house.
And sees her, sees Grace.
Practically hanging out of her front bedroom window.
"Hey!"
He matches his volume to hers, right side of his mouth reflexively pulling up into a smile.
Grace, beautiful, wonderful Grace above him.
Like an angel.
An unclad angel.
She's smiling, grinning big and bright.
And Huck, understandably, flails mentally.
"Are you . . . are you . . . dressed?"
He hates to say it, it isn't mannerly.
They're not even married yet.
But he's in such a surreal moment that he can't think straight.
Grace's upper half is practically hanging out of her second floor bedroom window, Grace with her dazzling eyes and her strawberry blond hair, and someone, probably multiple someones on either side of her, is, are, holding some sort of covering in front of her all the way up to the neck, some white sheet or something.
And she laughs.
"Yes!"
And flashes him her big, beautiful smile again.
"You're just not supposed to see me in my wedding dress! It's bad luck!"
No, getting shot by a psychotic mental patient is bad luck.
Or maybe it was good luck.
It's hard to tell at this point-
"Well then, get back in there before you fall out of the window!"
She laughs, open and joyous and beautiful.
"No! I have to tell you something important before we have the ceremony and everyone is looking at us!"
And her blue-green-green-blue eyes are practically sparkling down on him.
"Well, what is it?"
And Huck finds it infectious and the butterflies in his stomach are going crazy.
"I love you!"
And he is absolutely positive he will never stop grinning for the reminder of his life.
"Is that what you wanted to tell me?"
And Grace is grinning and oh, if that window ledge gives way . . .
"Yes!"
. . . he'll do his best to catch her before she lands in the begonias.
"Well, I love you too!"
And she blows him a sweet slightly mischievous kiss, ducks back into the room and Huck . . .
That woman.
. . . feels like his feet don't even touch the ground as he continues on his way to the porch . . .
Holy cow.
. . . and into the house.
They have set up the ceremony on the back lawn.
So cleanly and neatly trimmed, nearly manicured in its perfection.
A small set of chairs, no more than thirty or so, divided by a path for the processional.
A small arch has been constructed, painted white and wrapped in cloth.
When the ceremony and reception are over, it will be conveyed to the happy couple's new home.
Set wherever they like.
As a longstanding reminder of this momentous day.
It's unseasonably warm, no sign of the chill of autumn to cool the warming hearts of those in attendance.
Inside there will be simple refreshments, finger foods.
A three tiered wedding cake, homemade and simply decorated.
Champagne for the happy couple to share.
And lots of laughter and love and acceptance.
Surrounding them, enveloping them.
On this most momentous of days.
"Welllll, Huck, ready for the big day?"
"Yes, sir. I am."
And he is.
"Come here, son."
Except . .
"Let me fix that tie."
"Oh. Thank you, sir."
. . . he needs his tie fixed.
"Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of man and God . . ."
Huck Finnigan can hardly draw breath.
". . . to join this man . . ."
He's standing here, he's really standing here.
". . . and this woman . . ."
Standing before Grace, his Grace, his grace.
". . . in the bonds of holy matrimony."
In a marriage ceremony.
She looks beautiful, Grace does.
It's indescribable, he hopes he is not speechless when it's his turn to speak.
Grace.
Standing there in the sun.
Soft waves of strawberry blond hair covered with a sheer veil that flows down from the modest headpiece that flashes in the sunlight.
Grace, svelte form, adorned in a white tea length wedding dress.
Solid white bodice, delicate lace about the shoulders and neckline.
Waist cinched in with a narrow baby blue belt, below, a full skirt atop a just peeking baby blue petticoat.
To match baby blue heels.
A simple string of pearls encircles her neck. Pearl drop earrings.
Hands holding a round bouquet of the softest pink peonies and white roses, lamb's ear green, and just the sparest sprinkling of baby's breath.
She is standing there, Grace.
". . . take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband . . ."
And she's marrying him.
". . . to hold, in sickness and in health . . ."
Him.
". . . as long as you both shall live?"
Huck Finnigan.
Huck with his destroyed half-face and his failed first marriage.
"I do."
Huck who's coming up on thirty.
"And do you, Huck Finnigan, . . ."
And can't quite stop his hands from shaking here in the moment of the marriage ceremony.
". . . take this woman . . ."
Her older sister stands behind and to the side of her.
Susannah, clothed in a soft blue dress and blue pillbox hat.
Susannah, who showed up weeks into her baby sister's acquintanceship with this man, this stranger.
To sum up, judge for herself his worthiness.
Huck knowing he is not.
And yet, if he were to look away from his sweetheart, he would see her protective older sibling wears a soft smile upon her red painted lips.
For she knows more than he.
And that he is quite deserving.
He would see if he were to look, her father, her mother.
Mr. and Mrs. Miller, sitting side by side, the parents.
Both caught in the present of their baby girl at her wedding day.
And their own ceremony, some thirty years ago.
Nineteen twenty.
In the midst of a world in turmoil.
Yet finding each other.
And holding tight.
For all the long years to come.
And hopeful for this, their daughter and the man she loves, to do the same.
For everyone deserves support and companionship in their lonely lives.
And none moreso than the man before them with the smile on his face and love and devotion in his eyes.
As they each in turn . . .
". . . with this ring . . ."
. . . slips thin gold wedding bands . . .
". . . I thee wed . . ."
. . . onto one another's shaky fingers.
Eyes shimmering with joyous tears and baited breath.
Family and friends alike.
All this Huck would see if he could.
But he cannot.
Not for his damaged left side, though it does face the gathered, this union between man and woman and the God that brought life to them, the focus.
The minister being that representative of the same God.
All he can see . . .
". . . -nounce you man and wife."
. . . is her.
Grace.
His Grace.
His grace.
Grace.
"You may kiss the bride."
And no kiss has ever been so sweet.
Thanks to Conbird, IHeartSPN, and DinahRay for so graciously reviewing the previous chapter.
Hope this one melts your hearts and puts a smile on your faces :)
