(probably) May 11th, 1888 — St. Mungo's Hospital
Richard Gladstone

My reputation's never been worse, so
You must like me for me
We can't make
Any promises now, can we, babe?
— Delicate, Taylor Swift
Being back at St. Mungo's would have been a much more pleasant experience if she hadn't been, you know, hospitalized. In her own good opinion (which some would argue wasn't so good given the circumstances), she was fine, and at the very most just needed a quiet check-up from an on-call mediwizard to assure she didn't have anything broken or infected.

(Which she imagined would be obvious after more than two weeks of healing, not that anyone cared.)

Her heart had been beating too fast, and despite her maintained insistence that it was anxiety-related, they'd requested she'd stay there before going... home. Then it struck her: did she have a home to go to? What would become of her father? Her family? Would her Aunt Laverna be inclined — allowed, even — to take her back after the drama that would inevitably go down? Would she be disowned by her family? Shunned by society? Her friends?

Those thoughts alone were enough to bring her to tears, albeit silent ones.

As she rested in the hospital bed, Bella bunched the edges of the sheets in her palms and tugged them up so they covered her chin. She didn't want anyone to see her — not in this state, especially not with the very-obvious scar tracing across her jawline and down her neck. She really didn't want anyone inside the room with her at all, but she couldn't avoid that, not with the various spell damage healers coming to check on her.

And then there was another knock.

She didn't move, nor did she make any noise that would indicate they could come in. Instead, Bella closed her eyes shut, relaxed her muscles, and pretended to sleep. Hopefully, whoever it was would come in and then go away.

  

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— MJ is MAGICAL —

Richard had been able to deduce where his errant friend was thanks to the flowers she had sent back with his last letter. Respecting her wish to remain hidden, he had gone about his daily business as usual.

Then Miss Scrimgeour had been brought in apparently very much the worse for wear by other healers accounts. He hadn’t been able to go to see her just yet. He had his own duties to attend to and he was well aware of how society liked to talk. Not that he much cared, really. Besides, he was sure Miss Scrimgeour probably just wanted to be left alone. She’d been through quite the trial.

He couldn’t resist the need to be absolutely sure that while she might not be all right, she was on the path of healing. Knocking on the door gently, he then let himself into the hospital room. “We need to stop meeting like this,” were the first words out of his mouth as he recalled that other moment almost a year ago.

  

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Her attempts to continue the charade of slumber faded immediately upon hearing the voice—Mr. Gladstone's voice—though she did little more than open her eyes and peek in his direction at first. While she'd much-changed, he seemed just as he was the last time she'd seen him. Still in one piece, still in his familiar healer robes, and the same messy reddish hair and green eyes. She knew she'd be seeing him at some point, but hadn't really figured out (at least not yet) how she was going to handle the interaction. Would he be disappointed in her? Angry? Would he sever their acquaintance and leave her knowing she'd ruined yet another relationship?

The latter option was definitely a scary one, but there was little she could do about it. Society would have her labeled trouble in an instant once word of her discovery got out—then her father would be arrested, her family disgraced, and her the cause of everything. Then she'd be at their mercy; perhaps she should have stayed in the Hebrides.

"I'm sorry," she squeaked pathetically. It was hard to discern the meaning behind his words, and she just wan't thinking; in the back of her mind she was preparing for an assault of words on his part. She tried to position herself that she could sit up more with the sheet still covering her, but the way it was tucked into the bed made it nearly impossible; thus, she remained hidden in her spot, waiting for something.

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— MJ is MAGICAL —

Oh but she looked so broken. Richard was not a man accustomed to feeling anger - he was much too bright and full of sunshine for it - so when he did feel it, it tended to run deep into his core. Not at her, of course but at whoever had done this to her. What a coward they were, to cause such harm to a woman!

Sitting by her bedside, he waved her apology off. “What can you possibly have to be sorry for when you’re the one who has been wronged?” He had heard the rumors, certainly but he still didn’t think any offense warranted violence on a woman.

  

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He took a seat right beside her, doing nothing to soothe her already-bothered nerves. He wasn't angry at her—that much was apparent just from his words—but that did little to quell the sense of impending doom. Mr. Gladstone was too sweet to be mean and blunt, even when he was feeling upset; she thought she knew at least that much.

"I don't know," she murmured, struggling to get more volume to her words when it was muffled by the sheet. To lift it up would be to reveal her scar, and she wasn't emotionally prepared to see the disgust on his face yet. "I was a coward. I ran away, ignored your letters for a while. All that," she offered weakly.

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— MJ is MAGICAL —

"That is nothing to apologize for, Miss Scrimgeour," Richard said, reaching out to where he guessed her hand was under the covers. "Whatever happened to you was horrible and you likely went into shock. It is a man who harms a woman that is the coward."

  

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Bella let out a muffled squeak as his hand found hers, unintentionally knocking the covers down from their position. She struggled to remove her hands from their position to cover herself up once more, but simply found herself staring wide-eyed at Mr. Gladstone. "I-I..." Getting a word out was hard, and a coherent word was a different story.

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— MJ is MAGICAL —

Richard was alarmed somewhat at her squeak, enough so that he stood somewhat. "I am so sorry!" Richard exclaimed, awkwardly trying to help her put her covers back in place. Which lead to a bit of an accidental fondling so Richard immediately sat back with his hands under his legs. Well, now he didn't know what to say. Things were entirely awkward now, weren't they? Now... they were practically having a staring contest.

  

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With a bright red face and (still) wide eyes, Bella unknowingly let her covers drop once more while they just stared at each other. Had her scars frightened him? Was he upset with her? He'd said he wasn't, but that meant nothing.

"... Mr. Gladstone?" she asked in a murmur before beginning to nibble on her lip. "I know they're hideous, but you don't have to be scared of me. I- I'm still Bella. Miss Scrimgeour."

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— MJ is MAGICAL —

What? Why would he have an opinion on her bosom, as brief as his touch there had been? Oh, wait. Now he knew. "Of course I'm not scared of you!" He said, aghast that he had made her think so for even a moment. "I just... accidentally touched you.. someplace." She hadn't realized it so maybe he shouldn't bring it up, really.

  

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She had little clue what he was referring to, nor did she really care in that moment. Though her father had shown the cruelest sort of violence in the weeks prior, Mr. Gladstone had to near the top of the list of people she trusted with her physical safety. "You can touch me," she explained, her brows furrowing in confusion. "You don't frighten me. Well I guess... I guess you did then, but I didn't expect you to touch me."

With great hesitance, she reached a scarred arm towards him and touched his knee.

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— MJ is MAGICAL —

"I never want to frighten you," Richard said, his heart breaking at the sight of her scarred arm as she reached towards him. "My poor dear Miss Scrimgeour. No wonder you went into hiding." She must have been quite terrified, had to have been. On impulse, he took her hand and brought it up to his lips, just barely brushing them over her knuckles before releasing her hand. "You're safe now."

  

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She wasn't sure how to handle her emotions in that moment, and boy were there many of them. Embarrassment, shock, and a hint of affection overwhelmed her, and she found herself struggling to swallow the lump in her throat as his lips brushed her knuckles. My poor dear Miss Scrimgeour, he'd said; she wasn't sure what that series of words was meant to express, but she pushed the thought of them meaning anything more right out of her mind.

"For now," she agreed, though the uneasiness in her tone was quick to give away her insecurities. She would not be welcome in this little hospital room forever, nor did she have any desire to be stuck here; in a matter of days, she'd find herself cast back into the world, where she expected those who cared for her to turn the other way.

She'd ruined her family.

She'd ruined herself.

"You are not obligated to sit with me if you have work to do," she said, feeling that his reaction would help gauge where their friendship was heading. "St. Mungo's is always so busy."

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— MJ is MAGICAL —

For now. That was indeed true and he didn't know what help he could offer her that would still be seen as being within the realm of propriety. "There has to be somewhere you can go," he said. Surely there was still a friend out there that would shelter her? Or a woman's shelter of some sort? There had to be something out there.

"Nonsense," Richard said with a smile when she said that he wasn't obligated to sit with her. "I am sitting with you because I want to, not out of obligation. I was so worried for you."

  

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She shot him a grateful smile. "I have my savings from my internship; if I fail to make proper arrangements, I shall get a room at an inn somewhere. I'm sure I could support myself for a while." She was sure she could survive this, at least for a while; her fears were more or about the social consequences—and more specifically, how they'd impact her relationships with the people she cared for.

At his admission, Bella reached out and ran her knuckles down his cheek. "Thank you," she murmured sincerely, unsure of how else she could respond. He'd been worried about her, which should have been obvious enough from the series of letters they'd written back and forth. She supposed it was the lack of any before then that made her fear that his care was only situational, and that he'd become distant once he realized she was well.

(If you could call her current state well to begin with.)

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— MJ is MAGICAL —

That would get her by, he hoped. Surely, there was some respectable job that would pay enough to at least sustain her? There were many options for a NEWT educated witch beyond St. Mungos, after all. The impact of social consequences didn't really occur to the optimistic by nature young redhead.

Richard couldn't resist taking hold of Miss Scrimgeour's hand as she ran her knuckles down his cheek, chancing a chaste peck to her palm. He blushed in response to his own actions before clearing his throat awkwardly. "If there is anything I can do to be of help. Please don't hesitate to let me know." Not that there really was much he could do, he felt.

  

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