I do not own Ratched.

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

Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale

Homecoming


They can't stay forever.

The honeymoon must end.

The literal honeymoon, not the one in his mind.

Huck Finnigan can't imagine actually being anything other than as blissfully happy as he is at the every moment . . .

"Huck . . ."

"Grace . . ."

. . . of his new life so far.

After five glorious days of bungalow beach house honeymooning . . .

"Huck . . ."

"Grace . . ."

. . . they pack their bags.

Set the garbage along the back stoop.

Turn off all the lights.

"Are you ready to go home?"

"I'm ready to go anywhere with you, Huck."

Leave the key under the mat.

"Alright. Let's get on the road."

And head back . . .

"That was a lovely honeymoon, Huck."

"All because of you, Grace."

. . . up the coast.


They arrive home in the early afternoon.

Home.

The one they share together.

Not Grace's parents house.

"I'll ring them up. Let them know we're back in town."

"Alright."

Not Mrs. Graham's above-the-garage apartment.

"Would you go around and open up all the windows?"

"Sure. Will do."

But their home.

Their home.

His and Grace's.

Grace's and his.

And as Huck Finnigan walks through the rooms . . .

This is our living room.

Mine and Grace's.

. . . he is continually overcome . . .

This is our dining room.

Mine and Grace's.

. . . with the pure, undiminished delight of it all.

Not the things themselves.

What they mean.

And what they mean is . . .

I have a home with Grace.

Grace and me.

This is our home.

Together.

And so Huck Finnigan moves from room to room.

Opening windows upon his bride's request to air the rooms out.

Moving upstairs to open the window in the bathroom.

The bedrooms.

And . . .

Huh.

. . . the master bedroom.

Where there are . . .

That will take some getting used to.

. . . two single beds.

But that's okay, I guess.

Against either wall.

She's still my wife.

Separated by twin bedstands.

I'm still her husband.

Lamps atop.

And this is . . .

A rag rug between.

. . . our home together.

And Huck Finnigan . . .

And that's enough for me.

. . . opens the windows in there too.


They unpack their bags.

Find a stocked pantry and refrigerator sufficient for sandwiches, breakfasts, as well as . . .

"I'm going to have to write a note to my mother and sister for all this. They really took care of everything."

"They were really swell."

. . . a supper or two.

And then they get some coffee, put their feet up.

"Mr. Finnigan."

"Mrs. Finnigan."

And try to acclimate themselves . . .

"It doesn't feel real, does it, Huck?"

"No. It feels like a dream. This whole thing does."

. . . to their new lives.

"It's the dream I've always wished for. And the man I've always wished for."

"That's exactly what I was going to say. Well, except for the man part, of course."

Grace's laugh is melodic to his ears.

"Of course."


Some things are still the same.

Nightly, well, . . .

"Huck . . ."

"Grace . . ."

. . . rituals, so to speak.

Though at the conclusion of the evening's affairs . . .

"Well, good night, Grace."

"Good night, Huck."

. . . he leaves her bed.

And crosses the space to his.

"I love you."

And drifts off to sleep . . .

"I love you."

. . . alone.


The breakfast the next morning can only be described as picturesque.

Morning light filtering through the spotless window panes of their black and white floored kitchen.

Grace, wrapped in a soft pink robe, hair tied back with a ribbon.

Her skin is flawless and her smile is bright.

And the bacon and eggs . . .

"Good morning."

"Good morning."

. . . are a welcome sight.

Huck had awoken up alone minutes before.

Temporarily discombobulated . . .

This is not the apartment above the garage.

. . . and disoriented.

He had glanced over, seen the other bed empty and neatly made.

Looked past the armoire and the dresser to the open window with breeze lifted curtain . . .

Grace?

. . . and decided to believe she had not awoken to a life married to a half-faced divorcee . . .

Grace?

. . . and leapt out the window in a panic.

But instead, pushed back his own bedsheets . . .

She's probably downstairs.

. . . gone into the bathroom.

Making breakfast.

Attended his tolietries.

She likes breakfast.

And descended . . .

I like breakfast too.

. . . the stairs.

And he is right, Huck Finnigan is.

His new bride has not jumped out the window in a panic.

She is in the kitchen making breakfast.

Making breakfast and humming and . . .

"Good morning, Grace."

"Good morning, Huck."

. . . smiling so prettily he can barely . . .

"Did you sleep well last night?"

"I did. Did you?"

"Yes."

. . . stand it.


He piddles around the house that day.

Figuring he'd better figure it out if he's going to take care of it.

Winter months aren't steeped in snowy blizzards in this part of California.

But the furnace seems to be in nifty enough condition to see them through the cool weather.

There's a stack of dry firewood for the off chance all else goes awry.

And the waterpipes have already been wrapped against such a rare possibility as well.

The foundation seems to be sturdy and he can find no rats in the attic.

All these he has already inspected, both before the purchase and in the weeks since.

But it makes him feel good to check them, like he's taking care of things for his new bride and his new life.

And, satisfied, he returns inside.

Washes his hands.

And is presented with . . .

"Thank you, Grace."

. . . a nice, tall glass . . .

"You're welcome, Huck."

. . . of homemade lemonade.


Sandwiches for lunch.

Smoked salmon for supper.

Newspaper and radio in the evening.

And the continuation of their nightly routine . . .

"Huck . . ."

"Grace . . ."

. . . to complete the first full day of their post honeymoon life together.

And Huck Finnigan . . .

"Good night, Grace."

"Good night, Huck."

. . . goes to sleep . . .

"I love you."

"I love you."

. . . in his own bed alone.


It's a Tuesday when they return from their honeymoon.

A Friday when Huck returns . . .

"Well well well, nice to see you back, Huck."

. . . to St. Lucia.

"Thank you, Director Bucket."

And Betsy Bucket can always be counted on . . .

"You look tired. Looks like you haven't been getting a wink of sleep."

. . . to make things feel uncomfortably right . . .

"Well, I-"

"Been going at it like bunnies, I suppose?"

. . . at home.

Well . . . yes.

But that's not for me to-

". . . say, of course. Still, I expect you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed everyday. Late night newlywed or no. Yes?"

"No. I mean, yes. Of course."

And Huck knows . . .

"Good. Chop chop."

. . . he's back.


"Well, look at you, William Holden. You're a sight for sore eyes. I thought you'd run off and joined the circus."

"It's good to see you too, Mrs. Kee."

"There's that boy! Hey, don't you tell me you sold off my violin to pay for your honkey-tonkin'! That was a three thousand dollar violin! I played for Roosevelt, dammit!"

"If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Kee-"


Annnd, they're home. ;)

More to come!

Thanks to DinahRay and IHeartSPN for so graciously reviewing the previous chapter!