You would not believe the trouble this chapter has given me, what with the technological fails and the utter cluelessness I have when it comes to love. Oh, and the newfound obsession with the completely epic show Doctor Who. I blame jedigirl entirely.
(But seriously, this chapter gave me the HUGEST amount of oysh. Like…ugh. But maybe that's just me. I'll let y'all decide.)
Note that this was written while listening to the love song from Tangled over and over again, A) because it was a FANTASTIC movie, and B) it's a love song, so I figure it'll help.
But anyway. Enough author-note-ness and onto the writing for the final fourteen minutes I have with this computer.
Disclaimer: All I want for Christmas is Mary Poppins. Or David Tennant. Or- you know what, let's just move on.
Bert pulled a key out of his pocket as they reached the familiar house on Cherry Tree Lane, tossing it up and down contemplatively as they approached the door. Mary sent him a curious look as he trotted up to the door, and he shrugged as he inserted the key into the locked door.
"Bert outdid himself on this one," Mary said absently, peering over her shoulder at the world around her, even as the smaller version of the chimney sweep unlocked the door and pushed it open gingerly.
"Mhm- quite the artist I turned out t' be," Bert agreed, shoving the key back into his pocket and holding the door open for her cheerily. Mary stepped through, and he closed the door carefully, the latch clicking into place loudly in the sudden silence.
They stood in the foyer for a moment, before Bert shook himself and darted up the stairs, footsteps echoing loudly in the too-still house. Mary blinked at him, and he grinned at her, twitching his hand in invitation.
She smiled suddenly, and slid up the banister after him, giggling at the familiar rush she felt every time she did that.
Bert caught her at the top of the stairs, a hand wrapped around her forearm. She had barely caught her breath before they were racing down the hallway to the children's room. They lurched along, Bert pulling her forward as she attempted not to trip on the rug.
The door was ajar, and Bert pushed it open with his shoulder and stepped inside, Mary pausing in the doorway, a sudden rush of nostalgia washing over her.
She wasn't all that fond of sentimentality, but somehow Michael and Jane had managed to worm their way into her heart. For a fleeting moment it seemed like they had just skipped downstairs to find a glass of water, and before long their voices would echo up the stairs, arguing about some trivial matter. Then she would scold them gently, and they'd clean the playroom- it was looking just the slightest bit untidy, no doubt from Michael forgetting to pick up his toys when he was finished- and then they'd be able to go on with their day…
"They aren't here, Mary," Bert said gently, from his spot against the door. Mary startled, shaking her head and trying to clear the echoing laughter out of her head.
"Of course. Now, what were you going to show me?" Bert tilted his head toward the mirror against the wall, and she glanced at it. It took her a few painful seconds to realize why Bert's attention was fixated on the small circle on the wall, even after she found herself just in front of it.
The bed on the opposite wall wasn't reflected.
Instead, the mirror showed another room, another window, another skyline not-quite-right for where they were in London.
"It's your room," Bert said from just behind her. She flinched violently, and a warm hand returned to her forearm. The contact reassured her more than it should have.
"Mirrors- in this world- they show the outside. Tha's your room, see? On the bed-" and now Mary did see, a small white card. She knew if the card were open, she would see the very painting she had traveled into. The details of her little adventure made her head spin if she thought about it too hard, so she gave up and stared at the skyline, trying to make out the tiny figure on the rooftop opposite hers.
"That's me- or, rather, that world's me." She felt rather than saw him shake his head. "This whole thing is confusin', in'nt it?" She let out a short laugh of agreement, and glanced toward the mirror.
The figure on the rooftop was gone.
Alfred, Herbert. Bert. On one or two occasions, Bertie-boy. Bert is one of those people that Mary has previously described as indescribable. How do you begin to describe someone that has become a fixture in your life, something that you take for granted until it's gone? The words are impossible to find.
Even with Mary's not-inconsiderable intellect, she's always had difficulty classifying Bert. Where do you start?
It would be easy to describe him physically- tall, with dark hair and eyes. A smattering of soot perpetually smudged across his face contrasts sharply with the brilliant smile that also rarely disappears.
(The smile changes sometimes, subtly. The one she likes best is the one he only shows her, the one with the softened edges when he doesn't have to be cheerful and bright, when he's just being that way because that's who he is.)
His clothes aren't fancy- he doesn't have much, and what he does have is worn until it's tattered and ragged- but they're colorful, and often spattered with paint or chalk dust or whatever else he's been working with lately. He always tries to get rid of the worst of it, his efforts redoubled whenever he sees a trace of chalk transferred from his shirt to one of Mary's giggling charges. It never succeeds, and eventually he's gotten used to it, the patches of color as much a part of him as the smile.
But perhaps the best way to describe someone is through their personality. Bert is funny, what with his bad puns and riddles, but sometimes he's funny, with a sharp wit and sharper tongue, shocking a laugh out of her while the children look on in puzzlement. Bert is nice, kind, caring. Being a sweep has changed him from the rough-around-the-edges teenager she had first met.
(She was one of the first people she met upon arriving the city, and it frightened her how real he was. He swore and flirted with danger and flirted with her and his smile was different, wilder. Over time he settled down, but every once in a while she'll still see a flash of the person he was, not-quite-Bert but not-quite not him either.)
He's loyal, always the first one to step in when there's trouble, and the last one to back down from danger. Bert's saved her from trouble no less than three times, and has saved her from herself just as often.
Even though he only had a few years of schooling, Bert is clever. He isn't eloquent and his spelling is average at best, but if you look close, you can see that spark of brilliance in his eyes, unrefined but still showing in the careful way he thinks everything over.
(He has this habit of thinking outside the box, finding ways around things that have the rest of the world stumped. He'll never be a genius, but sometimes Mary wonders who he could have been had he been given an honest-to-goodness chance, if he'd still be her Bert, or someone completely different)
Bert is everything she is not- grounded, yet careless, filled with hope and free, so free sometimes she's surprised he doesn't just fly up into the sky, reaching for the stars just like the kites he adores.
(He brought her a kite one time, when she was getting ready to leave. The park was quiet- must have been a school day- and the wind was picking up and she was about to fly when he waltzed in with a brilliant red kite.
And they didn't talk about her leaving again. They sent the kite flying into the air, and laughed and talked until the wind carried her away.)
That's another thing about Bert- he's always reaching up, higher and higher, grasping for something just out of sight. From the kites to the rooftops to the wishing on stars, there's always something, and the look on his face always reminds her of something she can't quite put her finger on, another wish, another dream-
(-and then she remembered the little boy with stars in his eyes (dark eyes, set in a round face topped with a mess of dark hair), and the way he wished for his dreams, and the way she wished for hers, watching him watching her-)
And then it all connected.
"'E loves you, y' know," Bert said nonchalantly, as if they were talking about the weather or the price of biscuits on Third Street.
"Mmmhm," Mary said absently, waiting for the familiar figure to reappear. He did only moments later, climbing up the ladder on the side of her rooms- she could only just catch a glimpse of him through the window.
Through the mirror she could see him lean out to glance into her room. His brow furrowed as he glance around the empty room, eyes flickering to the coat still hanging by the door and bag by the bed. His gaze finally landed on the bed, and as he noticed the card half-open on the bed, his expression smoothed into a soft smile.
He shook his head, muttered something inaudible to himself, and continued on toward the roof.
It was only then that Mary registered what the Bert beside her had said.
"Wait- pardon?" She whirled around to face him, forgetting exactly how close he was. He was nearly her height, something that wasn't-quite-true out in the real world.
"He loves you," Bert repeated steadily. His dark eyes studied her carefully, and she could feel herself blushing, unsure why.
She turned to the window once more, her mind swirling with laughter and smiles and glances and secrets and friendship and that onelastkissgoodbye, and suddenly everything made sense.
"He loves me," she whispered. "Perhaps…perhaps I love him, too."
Love. Mary is familiar with the concept, and all that it entails. Love is one of those things she adores without restraint- she thrives on it, almost craves it. Love is- it's another one of those things that she has difficulty describing, because she didn't used to need words for it. It was always just there.
(Christmas is always Mary's happiest time of year. A celebration dedicated to love is something beautiful indeed.)
Even though Mary can never get enough of that feeling of loving and being loved (by her charges and her family and by her friends above all), she is realistic to know that love isn't always perfect - after all, it is the singular most popular item wished for, and the one that hardly ever comes true.
Even with that disheartening fact niggling in the back of her mind like a warning, telling her not to get too attached because look what happens then, Mary understands and embraces the idea of love and its many different forms.
Familial love is the one most familiar to her, the one she tends to see more often than not. Deep down families really do love each other, even though they bicker and tease and play nasty tricks on each other. Families aren't perfect- they can never be- but sometimes it's just good enough.
(She likes the dynamic between siblings best- they'll fight and fight and fight, tearing each other apart over the silliest things, but there's hardly ever any real malice between them- and by the end of the night they'll be curled up together in front of the fireplace, resting tired heads on the other's shoulders.)
Friendship is another thing she understands readily- not the awkward kind of acquaintanceship that women have with each other when they need to be polite and have someone to gossip with, but the type of friendship where she can let down her inhibitions and be Mary, not Miss Mary Poppins, prim and perfect.
(Of course, she never lets down her guard completely, because she's always just going to be that littlest bit different, and that's what leaves her watching while the rest of the world does its complicated dance around her.)
True friendship, real friendship is something akin to another family. They'll always be there for you, not matter what the trouble may be. It's the kind of friendship where you know everything about that person (sometimes more than you ever wanted to know). You can spend hours talking to them, or saying nothing at all, because sometimes just being with them is enough.
(Somewhere along the line, Mary found another family in the sweepers. They brought her in without question, even when she had nothing, and to this day she has difficulty expressing her gratitude. Whenever she tries, they just laugh and tell her she'd do the same for any of them.
It's taken her a long time to realize just how true that is.)
Love as it is commonly looked upon is what irks her, though. Couples with hands clasped, giggling and finishing each other's sentences and calling each other by endearments that would never pass the lips of someone in possession of all their senses. They drive her mad.
Because these are the couples that never last. They're together for a while, sometimes years, appearing perfect to the rest of the world.
They're not.
It starts with the little arguments over insignificant things and dissolves into yelling and throwing things and harsh words and tears and broken hearts.
And nothing's really ever the same again between those two.
(Mary's heart always breaks for those innocent couples, the ones who think they're desperately in love, because it never lasts, hardly ever.)
Love isn't like that- not really. It's more like smiles and glances and knowing you'll do anything for that other person. Love means flaws, and accepting them for those flaws. It's being so fiercely protective of them, you'll stop at nothing to make sure they're safe and happy. It's being unable to stay away from them too long- it's something to come home to.
Bert loves Mary- she's known that for a while. He'd do anything for her. He's that one thing in her life she somehow cannot live without. He's that one person who has never failed to make her smile. He's that one constant in her life, that thing she can always return to, no matter what else has changed.
Bert loves Mary. Mary loves Bert. She always has, (since the day she was a little girl dancing through the sky, and he was a little boy roaming the streets and dreaming of something wonderful.)
Mary loves Bert. She always has. She thinks that she always will.
(Please excuse my newfound love for parenthetical asides. I'm actually going to start work on the next chapter right away, so with any luck it'll be up before the new year)
Cocoa =D
P.S. Next two letters are I and D: Imagination and Dreams!