I do not own Ratched.
I do not own my angel boy Huck. But I love him.
Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale
Time At The End of The Day
All he wants at the end of the day is to come home to her.
His wife, his helpmeet.
His Grace.
All the frustrations and exhaustions and irritations of a long day attempting to help the uniquely challenged guests of St. Lucia Rehabilition Center . . .
". . . Wells scheduled on Thursday."
"I'm concerned about the possible side effects of electric shock treatments on our patients, Nurse Bower."
"Well, that's what Bucket said to do."
. . . melt, drain away the moment he enters the foyer of their home . . .
". . . shock treatment, Huck. It's a perfectly researched and proven medical treatment for patients with mental imbalances."
"It hurts them, Director Bucket. They tell me so."
"Head Nurse Finnigan, you will do as directed by your superior. . ."
. . . and he closes the door.
Grace often opens the swinging door to the kitchen as he's taking off his hat, his coat.
"Why, good afternoon, Mr. Finnigan! It's good to have you home."
"It's good to be home, Mrs. Finnigan."
A picture of beauty and perfection and, well, grace, as she smiles at him and he can do nothing but smile back in abject relief and joy.
"I missed you."
"I missed you too, Grace."
Grace, ethereal Grace.
With her strawberry blond waves framing her beautiful oval face.
Red lipstick and blue-green-green-blue eyes. Straight delicate nose.
Untying her full apron, revealing a lovely dress or another.
Flat shoes that do not click bullets across the hardwood floor.
And she's reaching out to him, him, Huck Finnigan, who never imagined in all the world that an angel such as this would so honestly and steadfastly love a Halloween masked face divorcee like him.
But she does, she does, . . .
"I love you, you darling man."
"I love you too, Grace."
. . . and he can't imagine his life without her now.
And she kisses him sweet, grins again, wiping the lipstick smear from his mangled lips . . .
"Why don't you go upstairs and freshen up while I finish preparing supper?"
"Alright. Be back soon."
. . . and sends him upstairs to wash the long day off his body and mind.
And because life is always full of little surprises, he is greeted by one barely more than a week into their marriage life.
I think my wife . . .
Their bedroom, their bedroom they share, together, as a married couple, as lovers, because she wants him, him.
. . . is a lot stronger . . .
And he can only stand there in the dampled sunlight of the late California afternoon.
. . . than she looks.
And practically feel her smile as she enters the room behind him.
"I hope you don't mind. I missed our honeymoon and decided I could do what I wanted in my own house."
Quite the speech and he's grinning too much to reply . . .
"Oh. Uh. No. I have too."
. . . with anything but delighted stutterings and mumblings.
And she giggles, a throaty, wonderful sound that tickles its fingers across the parts of him that gentlemen don't speak of.
"So you're alright with it."
He barely discerns his own nod.
"Yes."
And he is.
Perfectly fine with it.
Perfectly fine indeed.
But Grace . . .
It isn't proper, what will people say.
There's a way things are done and she's brazenly thrown this particular thing out the open, lace curtained window.
Or, more specifically, onto the bed.
Bed.
As in singular.
Where there were previously two.
For Grace Marie Finnigan, sometime during the day, has taken it up herself to rearrange their bedroom furniture.
She's moved the end tables with their lamps and alarm clocks they hardly ever need to wake up bright and early to a brand new day in a world that starts and ends with each other.
She's taken them and moved them.
Moved the rug that lay between them.
Taken the beds, those two twin beds that they each slept in alone.
And pushed them decisively together.
Two, into one.
End table on either side now.
Rug at the end.
And Huck Finnigan is grinning . . .
"So it's alright, then?"
"Yes. Of course."
. . . and he just can't stop.
"That's good," Grace declares happily. "Because . . ."
And here she moves to the end of the conjoined beds.
". . . I also took it upon myself to make it as permanent as possible."
And lifts the quilt cover.
And Huck laughs.
Indeed she has.
Grace Marie Finnigan, keeper and mistress of her own domain, has found rope.
And tied the legs of their separate beds together.
Lashed them together, with some sort of knot that Huck figures he'd never be able to untie.
Even if he wanted to.
"I've missed you," Grace says simply, blush high and beautiful in her cheeks. "Your arms around me at night. Your warmth."
And Huck knows he's blushing too, on the good side of his face.
He can't stop it and he doesn't care.
"I have too, Grace. I've missed it so much."
Because he's married to the most wonderful woman in the entire world . . .
"So, do you think it'll be alright?"
"Yes, I think so."
. . . and she . . .
"Would you like to try it out?"
"Really? I . . . What about supper?"
"It'll hold. Come here."
"Okay."
. . . loves him . . .
"Grace . . ."
"Huck . . ."
. . . right back.
Sappy sap with a side of sap? Well, it is a fairytale, isn't it?
So, yeah.
Thank you to DinahRay and IHeartSPN for your gracious encouragement!
