I do not own Ratched.
I do not own Huck. But I miss him and it's summer for me so I brought him back.
Huck Finnigan: Dreams and Nightmares; Best Life Lived
But Back To The Finnigans
Jillian Terrance and her odd ailment consumes much of his thinking time.
A girl who once was, is no longer.
And cannot communicate to anyone as to why.
For all her loops and swirls and wavy lines, when her speech is unlocked to its current fullest potential . . .
"Eggs scrambled cold broken sun see."
. . . she still remains a mystery.
And so he works it over, works it through, tries to solve the mystery of her restrictive malady.
"Good morning, everyone."
While he is among her, among them.
And often even when he is not.
Because it is his job.
Because he cares.
Because . . .
"I would like to welcome Jillian to our talk session today."
. . . it is who he is.
"Would anyone like to start?"
But that is not all who he is.
". . . at work, Huck?"
He is also . . .
"Oh, well, same old same old. How were things here today?"
. . . Huckleberry Finnigan.
"Same old same old."
Husband of Grace.
"How about we take a drive after supper? If that's something you would like?"
"Yes, I think that'd be nice."
Soon to be father of . . . well, . . .
". . . early to be thinking of baby names?"
"I think it's exactly the right time to be thinking of baby names."
. . . someone.
So that consumes him as well.
". . . -most ready to go to Sunday lunch? My mother asked if I could stomach roast. I asked her what everyone else was going to eat while I ate all the roast. She laughed."
In the best ways.
Grace and the baby inside her are never far from his thoughts.
When he's at work, he focuses as best he can.
When he is out and about, his thoughts wander to them with regular frequency.
"How's the wife, Finnigan?"
"Proud to say, the rabbit died, Chuck."
"Well, congratulations! About time."
When he is with her, with them . . .
". . . Adele? Josephine?"
"What about Olive? That's your mother's middle name, isn't it?"
"Yes. And your mother? What's her middle name?"
"Madeline."
"I like that. What if it's a boy?"
. . . those are the best moments of his life.
"Oh, um, . . ."
Grace's pregnancy thus far has been an easy one.
In the early days, she often suffered morning sickness.
"Grace, . . ."
Afternoon sickness.
". . . are you alright?"
Evening sickness.
"Can I help?"
Middle of the night sickness.
A friend of hers suggested cigarettes. Said they cut the nausea, kept down the baby weight.
Grace doesn't smoke, neither does Huck.
They've discussed it before, their individual rejections of this common, harmless, popular pastime.
"You don't smoke?"
Grace's nose had crinkled too prettily for her to adequately be expressing disgust, in Huck's adoring opinion.
"I tried it once with my friends. Chesterfields. They tasted so bad I never tried them again. Washed my mouth out with soap like my mother used to do when we said bad words or told lies."
She had smiled self-deprecatingly and Huck had reflexively smiled back.
Then, in typical Grace fashion, she had flipped the question back to him.
"I suppose I'm just not sophisticated enough. What about you?"
And after a moment . . .
"Oh, uh, well . . ."
. . . he had told the truth he'd be able to tell.
"I did. Before The War. During. But when I came home, . . ."
Trying to remain detached and casual.
The smell of burning flesh, his own. Others.
Soldiers, civilians.
He had managed to shrug through the echoing screams, the ghosts of acrid smell in his nostrils, the phantom bitter ash in his mouth.
". . . I gave it up."
Unaware his warm, dark eyes had gone flat with refreshed trauma.
Voice softening with vulnerability, the post traumatic stress that will remain undocumented in him and so many others all throughout their lives.
"Just lost my . . . taste for it, I guess."
Grace had tilted her head, seeming to peer at him speculatively.
And then let it . . .
"Well, now that we've agreed on that, you know what I have a taste for?"
"What?"
"Ice cream."
. . . it be.
And he had smiled.
And she had smiled. Touched his hand with a light hand.
Leaned in conspiratorially.
"Want to go after work?"
And Huck had . . .
"Sure, Grace. That sounds swell."
. . . loved her for it.
But now, almost doctor prescribed, . . .
". . . it to her, the morning sickness was so bad."
. . . Huck ventures out on a mission.
Returning . . .
"I bought Marlboros. The lady at the counter said they were a woman's cigarette."
. . . with a singular red and white packet with black lettering . . .
"'Mild as May', I think she said."
. . . in his hand.
Grace takes the pack from him, lights up with a match from the mantle above the fireplace.
Puts it to her lips.
"Grace!"
And nearly coughs herself to the floor with the first inhale.
Huck braces her, alarms ringing in his ears, even the one that doesn't work, a phantom on that side that has nothing to do with real sounds.
And finally . . .
"Oh-ugh- 'Mild as May', my foot! Ugh, I cannot stomach those!"
. . . her hacking subsides.
"Huck?"
"Yes?"
"You may have to eat cold sandwiches for a while."
"That's okay, Grace. Not a problem at all."
Eventually Grace's daily sickness abates.
"Huck, come here."
And a new development presents itself.
"Yes? Oh, I . . . oh . . . uh, you feeling better?"
"Mmm-hmmm . . ."
One he wasn't expecting.
"Grace, I don't . . ."
"It'll be okay, Huck."
One he isn't exactly . . .
"Are you, uh, sure?"
. . . comfortable with.
"If I change my mind or feel any pain, we'll stop."
By then it may be too late.
"Ummm, . . ."
One . . .
"Please, Huck, I don't know what it is exactly, or even if it's appropriate."
. . . he certainly wasn't prepared for.
"But I'm sure not asking my mother or my sister."
But Grace . . .
"But what about-"
. . . seems very . . .
"Don't worry, Huck."
. . . very . . .
"I think this is the good part of pregnancy."
. . . adamant about.
"Uh, okay."
And Huck worries about hurting her. Hurting the baby.
Scaring it, even?
(So much of his medical journals have no real, clear, documented information regarding women's issues.)
But he also . . .
Holy moly, Grace-
. . . trusts his wife.
And she . . .
"How are you feeling this morning?"
"Still carrying. But alright."
. . . seems quite confident in herself.
"Did I, uh, . . . are you, uh, . . . hurt this morning?"
"No, not at all. Are you?"
"Oh, uh, no. No."
And her . . .
"You know, you're much better than cigarettes, Huck."
"Oh, uh, thank you, Grace."
. . . husband.
As time goes on, it becomes more and more marked, more and more evident.
Grace's little 'matter in question'.
He had always known her perfection was too good to be entirely true.
Everyone had their flaws, their vices.
And he had known hers from the beginning; she hadn't hid it.
He just hadn't made . . .
". . . an apple."
"Why thank you, Miss. Miller. It looks like delicious."
. . . much . . .
That's so sweet. Just like her.
. . . of it.
He just didn't know how much more pronounced . . .
". . . banana pudding from a Southern cookbook this afternoon. Would you like some, Huck?"
"Sure. Sounds swell."
". . . pecan pie home, Mother. If that's alright with you?"
"Of course, dear. I know what a sweet tooth you have so I made an extra to take with you."
". . . lime pie. Have you ever had key lime pie, Huck?"
"Uh, no."
". . . custard chiffon cake. There's still some left if you like."
My wife is going to give birth to a bag of granulated sugar.
"Uh, Grace?"
. . . it was going to become.
"The rabbit died" was a phrase used for "pregnant" because, check this out, doctors used to sometimes check for a woman's pregnancy by injecting a female rabbit with the woman's urine. If the woman was pregnant, the rabbit's ovaries would develop a certain tissue which the doctor would discover once he cut open the rabbit and dissected it!
I kid you not. Thank you, Google. I wasn't enough looking for it.
*facepalm*
Sorry for all the exposition but, come on, man, damn.
I could not keep that shit to myself.
Anyway, thank you to DinahRay for previously reviewing! :D