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; The Best Life Lived


Head Nurse Harold 'Huck' Finnigan stands on the whitewashed steps of the grand front entrance, watching the deep red Oldsmobile creep its way across the pressed gravel driveway that cuts through the neatly trimmed green lawn of St Lucia Rehabilitation Center.

The cliffs end the grounds far beyond, the Pacific crashing far below, distant and unthreatening.

Some nights he worries some wandering patient may become too enchanted, entranced, by the eternity of those constant waves.

Escape the safe walls of this place.

And fling themselves down into them, an ending worthy of the Poe his librarian mother read to him only on rare occasion that the darkly gothic fascination took her.

Huck worries of one of their wards seeking out their own Lenore, creating their own tomb by the sounding sea, as it were.

But their security is strong, stronger now that they have tightened up.

Though somehow Peter always finds his way to the stable.

And so he forces himself not to worry overmuch.

Or tries.

For now, he focuses on the approaching vehicle and the occupants within under a cloudy sky that threatens a California afternoon shower.

A well-respected alderman's wife and daughter.

They are expected, have called ahead.

And Huck wishes to greet them reassuringly and properly.

In truth, he wishes Grace to do so, she emits such a warm and welcoming presence in any situation.

She also is in possession of a whole, entire, functional face, no Halloween mask such as Huck himself.

But she has been home quite some time.

First, of her own accord, wife-ing, creating a warm and welcoming home for her and the lucky Huck.

And now, also . . .

"Say goodbye to the baby, Huck."

"Do you think she can hear me?"

"I don't know. But it doesn't do any harm, does it?"

"No. Goodbye, Baby. Your papa loves you."

"She kicked."

"Really?"

"Mm-hm. I think she likes your voice."

. . . preparing for impending motherhood.

"That's . . . I don't have the words, Grace. I just . . . I love you."

"I love you too, Huck. Now go on to work. Supreme Leader (yes, he had told her, one rainy evening as they sat and chatted together, she had laughed and covered her mouth and then laughed again and Huck had been devilishly pleased) Director Bucket will be waiting for you."

"Okay. Bye."

"Bye. See you this evening."

And so Huck is here.

And he'll . . .

"Bring 'em to me when they get here."

"Yes, Director Bucket. You, uh, you could also wait with me on the front steps."

"Me? I'm far too busy. Besides, that's why I have you, Head Nurse Finnigan. Now go on. Chop chop."

"Yes, Director."

. . . have to do.

He could have one of the other nurses do it, they are fully staffed and running as smoothly as a cliff side mental Rehabilitation Center may.

"Good morning, William Holden."

"Good morning, Mrs. Kee. And it's Huck, remember?"

"Of course, William Holden."

But he wishes to bestow as much confidence and reassurance upon individuals leaving their unwell loved ones in their care as possible.

"And just where do you think you're going on, Nurse?! I have not directed you to-"

"Bill, will you please take Ms. Wells to her room to rest? She seems a little tired."

"Do not speak past me as though I am not here, boy, I am your superior-"

And so . . .

"Good afternoon. Welcome to St Lucia."

. . . he waits.


". . . daughter . . ."

He has brought them to Supreme Leader Director Betsy Bucket's office, that overlarge, red carpeted room wherein Huck almost died, so long ago, really only two years prior.

The event that brought him to his Grace, having successfully avoided her as much as possible out of self-doubt and self-preservation up unto that point.

He stands in this cavernous room, aside to Betsy Bucket's massive desk.

Betsy Bucket herself sitting behind it, hands folded atop, face affixed into what she must think is a reassuring smile.

As they sit sit on the other side of the desk.

The woman and . . .

". . . Jillian Terrance."

. . . the girl.

Sixteen.

Slight.

Hands clasped together in front of her, fingers fidgeting around one another.

"Jillian, will you say hello, please?"

Brown eyes furtively darting here and there as she doesn't quite manage to make eye contact with those around her.

Face pinched, mouth pressed closed.

"Jillian? Jillian?"

Mother, face pinched like her daughter's.

But in frustration . . .

"She's been like this for weeks. Her father and I don't know what to do. We cannot get her to speak!"

. . . instead of anxiety.

"If she would just tell us what was going on, we could help her. We even sat her down, tried to convince her to write a letter if it suited her. But she just stared at us, wouldn't make a single letter, she used to be such a good writer . . ."

Handkerchief to the eyes, sobs locked in her throat.

Restrained, she is, the mother, barely restrained in her upset.

It hurts Huck to see it, to hear it, the pain in her voice.

And on the girl's face as well, nearly a mirror of her mother's.

Only silent.

Completely silent.

She looks for all the world as though she wishes nothing more than to open her mouth and speak.

And is unable . . .

"Well, we cannot, of course, promise anything."

. . . to do so.

Betsy Bucket's locked countenance is as gentle as she can be.

Tone softened as much as she is able.

Cautioning all the same.

"But I assure you, we will do all we can to help your daughter, Mrs. Terrance."

And like so many others before her . . .

"Thank you, Director Bucket."

. . . the mother gratefully clings on . . .

"Thank you so very . . ."

. . . to any desperate hope . . .

". . . much."

. . . she can.


"This is your room, Miss Terrance. We ask you sleep here at night when it is time to turn the lights out."

The girl next to Huck doesn't look at him, doesn't engage.

"This is an open facility, however, and you are allowed to move about the common areas as you wish during the daytime."

Only keeps her hands clasped around her elbows, seeming to try to make herself as small as she can.

"Any of our staff are available to help you. All you have to do is ask."

She turns to him then, all fearful, big eyes and anguished face.

Huck tries to reassure her as best he can.

"No one will hurt you here. And if they do, come to me. Just point them out and I'll take care of it."

After all, sometimes that's all he feels he can do.

"We're here to help, Miss Terrance. Please let us help."

And then . . .

"Would you like to see the solarium?"

. . . he shows her the rest of the facility.


And her mother is correct.

She does not speak.

Not to ask for food or to use the lavatory.

She attends to herself, does not bother others.

"She sure is a quiet one, isn't she, William Holden?"

"We're trying to figure it out, Mrs. Kee."

"Well, you sit right here by me, dear, and we'll let the doctors do their job. I just hope it doesn't involve shock treatments. They give me a headache something awful."

And Huck is grateful . . .

"Thank you, Mrs. Kee."

. . . for the gentility and care . . .

"You go on now, William Holden. We'll look after her."

. . . for the dark-skinned 1922 Southern Florida Shuffleboard State Champion . . .

"Thank you, Mrs. Kee."

"You're welcome, William Holden. Go along now."

. . . who will never get his name right.


I missed him. I missed them. I missed her.

So I brought them back.

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