I do not own Ratched.

I do not own Huck. But I missed him so I brought him back.

Huck Finnigan: Dreams and Nightmares; The Best Life Lived

Lost

"Peter, I . . . I think this will be a good opportunity for you."

"I, um, there will be other boys your age where you're going."

"You won't be so lonely there maybe."

"They might even have horses."

"You might start to feel better, being with other people your age."

"I . . . I . . . I wish you the best, Peter."

"'Bye, Chief."

Huck Finnigan hates Betsy Bucket.

He hates her.

He hates her more than he has ever hated almost anyone in his life.

Maybe even more than the Nazi scumbag that tried to blow his head off on that bloody, muddy foreign battlefield.

He hates her.

"Director Bucket is looking for you."

"Thank you, Nurse Raymond. I'll be right along."

He tries to avoid her whenever possible.

"Huck, I need you to take Mr. Levy down to the shuffleboard court please."

"Yes, ma'am."

Tries to speak as little as possible when he must.

"Everything alright, Huck?"

"Yes, ma'am."

And, oh, how he hates her.

He dreams of slapping her, punching her, putting his hands around her throat.

Putting her in the hydrotherapy room, in the hot water, until she screams and begs for mercy, until her skin bubbles and peels off, until that ugly red-lipped face melts off her clean white skull.

Mercy she doesn't deserve because she does not give.

Mercy Peter was denied, lost Peter, abandoned Peter.

Rejected and betrayed Peter.

By St. Lucia.

By Betsy Bucket.

By Huck Finnigan himself.

"Huck, are you alright?"

"What? Oh. Yes. Sorry, Grace."

"It's okay. You just seem . . . preoccupied lately."

"I'm sorry."

"You're thinking about Peter, aren't you?"

Yes.

Yes, he was thinking about Peter.

But also . . .

"I'm . . . struggling at work . . ."

And Grace's tone is gentle.

"Supreme Leader Director Bucket?"

He doesn't respond.

"You blame her for sending Peter away."

He clenches his jaw.

Unclenches it.

"I know . . . I know she felt she had to . . ."

Grace knows the exchange. He told her, nearly word for word.

". . . but . . . I'm so . . . angry . . ."

And Grace stops him.

"It doesn't matter her reasoning or whether or not you should blame her, Huck. You're having these feelings, these thoughts. They're lingering, not going away. Maybe even strengthening."

Huck nods, feeling ashamed, resentful (of Bucket).

Exposed for the person he loves the most to see (Grace).

But she doesn't seem . . .

"That's dangerous, Huck. For you. For your well-being."

. . . to be revolted or disgusted by him.

"If this goes on, it will make you sick."

She just seems to care.

"You need to get away for a while. Take a week off from work."

He looks at her, surprised.

"Just a break, Huck. Before this thing breaks you."

And he tries . . .

"Alright. I'll take next week."

"Good. And don't let Supreme Leader Director Bucket stop you either. Or she'll have me to answer to."

"Well, we wouldn't want that."

"No, she would not."

. . . to give her a smile.

And he does take off from work.

And they do take a break.

And it is a very quiet . . .

"Lemonade, Huck?"

"Thank you, Grace."

. . . time for them.

It doesn't really fix anything.

But it gives him rest, respite, from simply being there.

At St Lucia.

And that . . .

"I love you, Grace."

"I love you, Huck."

. . . is something.

And then life moves on.

It must.

Huck goes about the business of being second in command at St Lucia Rehabilitation Center, first for a time when Betsy Bucket traipses off down to Mexico for a vacation with Mildred and Gwendolyn Briggs, a celebration of the latter's successful cancer treatment.

Returning with a tan, a wide smile.

And full Supreme Leader Director aplomb and fashion.

"- dawdle, everyone. Chop! Chop!"

And they all do.

Grace goes about the business of loving him and making a wonderful home and life for them and their baby.

Huck watches with fascination as her belly grows and grows, her demeanor somehow ever gracious and graceful.

Though she has begun to snore in her sleep, a side effect of her pregnancy, he supposes.

And so though he loses precious restful hours at night, he finds the beauty and reassurance and hope of his wife and the child growing in her belly to be far more precious than the tiredness that sometimes plagues him throughout the day.

Days pass, weeks, and he worries over Peter, tries to tell himself the boy will benefit from the change in environment, receive the help he so desperately needs and they, apparently, have failed to provide.

There is no one now to dote on the Arabian in the barn, at least not the way Peter did.

And Huck rotates nurses, dependable patients.

And still, it is not as it was.

Truth be told, it is easier, not having to be notified in the night when the boy is not found within the confines of his room, the sitting room, the solarium.

Definitely easier than uneasily watching the boy watching Jillian Terrence as she sits and draws and sketches.

Absolutely easier than worrying they have found a more private place than the barn, found a more social pasttime than simply cradling up to the ever patient equine who tells no secrets, harbors no judgment.

It is easier.

And yet Huck worries.

About the boy, the silent, watchful boy.

And he, of course, cares for the horse.

Days pass, a week, a month.

Huck works, Grace grows their child.

Mrs. Kee . . .

"Where are you off to, William Holden?"

"To take care of the horse in the barn, Mrs. Kee. Would you like to come with me?"

"Oh no, dear. Thank you. I'm not sure a kick to the head would much help my mental condition."

. . . is, well, Mrs. Kee.

Might switch your misidentification of me.

"Good afternoon, John Wayne."

"Good afternoon, Pilgrim. I mean, ma'am."

He's almost chuckling to himself as he pushes open the barn door and closes it, temporarily blinded by the abrupt change from brightness into dimness.

And he stands still the few seconds it takes to regain his sight.

He hears the quiet shuffling of the barn animals, smells the hay, the offings of their excrement.

Feels the rough wood boards of the wall against his fingers.

I bet John Wayne could see perfectly in the dark.

This makes the side of his face that works pull into an almost grin.

And he moves into the area where the Arabian is kept.

It is a beautiful animal, pure white coat, flowing white mane.

It may be halfway to the glue factory.

But some things in this world are just beautiful and this is one of them.

The horse is calm and still, not snorting or whinnying, stamping its feet in impatience or agitation.

Flicking its long white tail here and there.

But as Huck moves around it, filling up water and patting the horse reassuringly, Ma's Poe suddenly comes back to him, whispering through the rising hairs on the back of his neck.

"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,"

"Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before-"

Something is watching him.

"Lenore?"

Huck becomes very still, very quiet.

He's only got the one good eye and so uses it to peer carefully into the shadows of the barn.

He turns in a circle, slowly, slowly.

Searching.

Until . . .

No.

It can't be.

Thanks to the gracious DinahRay for so graciously reviewing the previous chapters!