Bert was in Dubai. It made sense to head south as winter had approached; Dubai was a far cry from London during its winter months, being dry and warm, but not too hot, as he came to understand the summer would be.
It was easy to converse with the people of Dubai, considering quite a number of them came from other countries, and it was harder to avoid those who spoke English, in some form or another, than to meet with them. Bert enjoyed the markets, and the weather, but was already thinking about going on. He was travelling to see the world, and, as he had discovered, cities were interesting and exciting but not the places to really get to know the intricacies of the country. Everyone went to the cities, travelers and natives alike, and to really understand a place, the smaller towns were better. That was where he practiced what little he could say in each place he visited; usually hello, thank you, lovely weather, sorry, and other small, random words.
On the other hand, cities were more familiar, and sometimes he felt a bit homesick, and at such times a city would both help to cure him and to make it worse. Either way, countryside or city, he'd get to chatting with the country's equivalent of a sweep or leerie or busker (those were the same the world over), or whatever the locals mostly worked at. Sometimes he helped drive cattle, or mend roofs, or farmed. Sometimes the work was hard, sometimes it was just strange. Most of the time, he'd earn a bit of money by giving a performance. Being a foreigner helped him there; his songs and dances were exotic, and people liked his voice, even if they didn't understand a word of what he said. And when work was done…they played. That was when Bert really got to know a new place; when he knew what people drank for pleasure, how people moved in a dance, what songs were sung just for the joy of singing and what was sung or danced for a purpose, for a wedding or funeral or to celebrate a new baby.
Bert would never get rich living as he did…but he felt rich, richer than a king (or a malik, or a basilias or a roi). That was the way to travel, to really know the world, to know the people and their customs and their language and their music. Not everything he saw was wonderful, of course. He saw places where omegas were treated as slaves, where an alpha could beat his omega in the street and no one would interfere. On the other hand, no one looked approving either. More often, omegas were treasured, and hidden away, which still didn't sit right with Bert, and he was kind of glad he hadn't brought Jack, but the omegas he did manage to see didn't appear to feel particularly hard done by or oppressed, so maybe it wasn't all bad. Anyway, there were good alphas and bad alphas (and good and bad omegas, and betas too) the world over.
He missed Jack, like he missed London, like he missed Mary. It was in the same place he kept his homesickness and the distant ache where his parents once resided. He missed them, but it didn't consume him or detract from his enjoyment of the moment. And he found new companions on his journey. A young beta had gone along with him for months before they parted ways. For a while, he was a part of a troupe of travelling performers, until one performance got a bit too hot with the local constabulary and they scattered and he never met up with them again, though he did sneak back to make sure they got away. He was never alone; if he hadn't found some companion on the way, he'd meet up with locals. He'd play with the children. He'd find the local fun.
Now he was in Dubai, with a vague idea to continue on a ship to India, maybe keep on heading south until he reached Australia. He wasn't expecting for the young boy to come running up to him.
"Excuse me, English man?" said the boy, his accent making apparent that English was not his first language.
"Yes?" Bert asked, slightly cautious of the location of his current funds (along with seeing the darker sides of the streets in his travel, he'd seen his share of pickpockets and scammers…usually as they plied their trade against someone else). He was cautious now at this unexpected greeting but not on edge, curious more than anything.
"I have you letter," the boy explained, and he waved a bunch of paper in Bert's direction.
"My letter?" Bert asked with some surprise. "Cannot be." (he had learned to avoid contractions; non-native speakers found them harder to understand). Then, more to himself than the boy, "No one in the world knows where I am." Well…he could think of one who could probably find him if she wanted to, but surely she wasn't writing him letters?
"You English man who sing? You man who dance? You name…Bird, yes? I have you letter."
And the boy insistently thrust the papers at Bert. Bert accepted them, still confused and rather thinking this must be some sort of scam, but being of a generous nature he was already drawing forth a coin in payment. Likely the paper would prove to be worthless nonsense and this was all a trick to get payment for delivery, but Bert was willing to let the little scamp get away with it.
"Thank you," said the boy when he had received the coin. "Woman say you pay." And he ran off again before Bert could ask about the 'woman'. Instead, he looked at his 'letter'. Letters, more like, and with no little astonishment, he discovered that each one was addressed to him. There were no envelopes, no postmarks, no stamps, and several of the letters were dashed out on mere scraps of paper, and in an unsteady hand, and most had scorch marks at the edges, but all were easily readable. More to the point, he knew that handwriting. Jack had written him letters. Jack had written him and somehow, impossibly, managed to deliver them to his exact location.
He should have given the boy a larger coin.
The letters seemed to already have been arranged in chronological order, and it was quickly clear that Jack had not written them all in one go. Nor had he even expected Bert to actually receive them. In fact, Bert felt slightly bad about reading them the first moment he realized that, but then, they were addressed to him.
The first letter was a sad one. Matilda had died. She was older than him, but not by a vast amount, and it was hard to imagine her as being old, as frail. The woman in his memory was anything but. And now she was dead.
The next letters to follow were more detailed, often referencing his own correspondence, and several made him laugh out loud. The ache in his chest where his homesickness lived was more acute than ever, yet he felt lit like a blessing.
The first mention of Bill was a bit of a shock.
Jack never really meant for Bert to read any of what followed but Bert couldn't stop. He had to know. And anyway, it was still addressed to him. What followed was an odd mixture of wonderful and nightmarish. Jack had found himself an alpha, and what's more, it was an alpha Bert knew and approved of. Out of all the world, he'd found his way to Jane Banks. Well, that clearly wasn't an accident, not when Mary Poppins had returned to London. But the bad just kept getting worse, and worse, and Bert never in his life wished so badly that he could be transported home all in an instance.
And then that last letter…and nothing after.
Bert read through all the letters once, and then a second time, and his brain was already working through the long miles of distance he needed to travel, the days, weeks, if not months it would take (for he hardly had the budget even if he could find a train that went direct; he'd have to work his way back just as he'd worked his way there), and all the while not knowing what happened after.
No one bothered him as he considered this; no one approached him. He couldn't see his own face, but he could feel his own rage, helplessness, fear, and he knew he likely projected it all in his face and few would dare approach an alpha stranger who had those expressions written across his face. He was glad to be alone (wished he wasn't, but the ones he wanted to not be alone with were not there). He stared down at the letters. So when he was approached, he saw the shoes first.
They were stylish shoes. They were a woman's shoes. His eyes traveled upwards, taking in a dress that was stylish and, somehow, completely in tune with Dubai but also distinctly British. The face that was over the dress was not a complete surprise, not after the letters, but it was still a shock.
It had been a few years since he last saw Mary Poppins. As always, he felt a mixture of joy and fond nostalgia at the sight of her, mixed with just a smidgeon of regret and something like loneliness, but for her rather than for himself. She hadn't aged a day, and she was a wild thing that couldn't be kept and she came when she liked (when she was needed) and he was so much older than her now. How could she not be lonely, living apart from everyone else? And he ached for her.
He was happy to see her, but the anger the letters ignited didn't just let go, nor did the fear. So his first words to her weren't a proper greeting at all. He'd never imagined in his life he'd fail to give her a proper greeting, yet there they were.
"Did you know?" was what he asked, harsher than he meant to be (he wasn't angry at her, not really, he was just angry).
"Know what?" she asked, and he could hear her disapproval at being so addressed.
"Jack's letters…" he said, and with a great effort he toned down the harshness of his own voice.
"I do not read other people's letters," Mary Poppins sniffed, clearly offended by the very notion, and Bert's fingers grasped the letters tighter. He wasn't even sure what he felt in that moment except that it was unpleasant, and he wanted to vent that feeling, but he didn't want to attack her, not even with words.
"You did deliver them," Bert said, certain of this.
"Really, Bert, what do you take me for? Some kind of postman?"
He'd almost forgotten about that trick of hers, to make out she did nothing when she did everything. It usually made him feel more fond. This time, it made him almost want to lash out. He didn't, of course, not against Mary Poppins, but he wanted to.
"…Jack says there's this alpha that's been coming round and hurting him," Bert said, taking the effort to re-aim his anger to where it truly belonged. But he couldn't help but adding, "Did you know about him?"
Mary Poppins looked like she might sniff at him again, but then her expression changed, and for a moment she actually looked deeply troubled. Not angry, like him, but sad.
"Jack is a grown boy," she said, her voice gentle this time. "He can make his own choices."
"He's an omega," Bert corrected her. "And his choices are hurting him."
"Not all his choices are bad ones. He chose Jane, didn't he?"
"I suppose that was your doing as well?" Bert almost managed to smile at her then, and felt nothing but fondness when she once again became offended.
"Are you implying that I go around like some kind of…of Cupid…" Bert let her get out all her disgruntled feelings, and something inside of him eased, at least a bit. It was good to be reminded that Jack wasn't utterly alone. He couldn't imagine Jane Banks allowing an omega in her pack to be attacked, not if she knew of it. Chalky wouldn't allow it either. Nor would any of the leeries or sweeps; no one that knew Jack or knew Bert would stand for Jack being hurt. That last letter though…it was hard to shake off the deep feeling of dread that had chilled his very bones. He tried anyway, giving Mary Poppins her proper due at last.
"It is good to see you, Mary," he said. For a moment, Mary Poppins looked like she wasn't going to accept his half apology, but of course she did a moment later, taking his hand in hers.
"Well, come along then, Bert," she said. He didn't ask where they were going. He rather thought he already knew, and anyway, it did little good to ask Mary Poppins questions.
They went on a train, but as far as Bert had travelled, he'd never seen a train that had a penguin for a conductor. Nor did he know of any train that went express from Dubai to London in a single night.
Mary Poppins could probably have brought them to London even quicker. He didn't know how, but he was certain she could have done it, just as she had somehow saved Jack's letters from the fire to deliver them exactly to him, when Bert himself didn't know where he'd be staying next. She probably had her reasons for getting them there exactly when she did. Just as she had her reasons for not getting off the train with him.
At least they had a lovely evening together, where he almost forgot his fear (but he couldn't, not entirely) and forgot that he was so much older than he used to be (so much older than her, she who had once been older than him), and simply enjoyed a lovely song and some teacakes and then perhaps the nicest sleep he'd had in an age, no matter the worries that should have kept him up. He dreamed of penguins dancing in a field of books. He rather thought Jack was there too. He woke up refreshed as the train pulled into the station.
Mary Poppins never said it was time for another goodbye, no tearful kisses, no last look out the window as the train drew away. He had thought she'd exited the train with him, in fact, but he turned around and she was gone.
He said goodbye anyway. He always did.
He went to Jack's flat first, naturally, and found it empty. He didn't know how he felt in that moment. He looked at the wall of pictures he'd drawn himself, and listened as a robin shouted at him for intruding from its nest inside an old hat. There were no less than three potted plants about the place; two in the window and one on a shelf next to the bird's hat nest.
There was nothing untoward or out of place; no blood-soaked shirts or the like. The place was clean and pleasant and empty except for Phil the robin.
"Don't you worry," he told the bird who was still shouting at him. Generally the language of birds is simple; it all boils down to 'want to mate?', 'Intruder!' 'I challenge you!' and 'Lovely day!'.
"I'm a friend of Jack's." Bert told it, when his first words proved ineffective to silence its song.
He didn't actually expect the bird to understand this, but the robin did stop screaming. For a moment. Then it started…well, it sounded like scolding to Bert.
"Yes, I know I should've been here, but I'm here now," Bert told it. "I don't suppose you know where Jack's gone?"
If the robin knew, it kept the secret. After a train ride with Mary Poppins, Bert wouldn't have been shocked if the robin had spoken, or if it had flown and led him right to the errant omega, but the bird only looked at him and stayed in its nest. It occurred to Bert that perhaps 'Phil' might well be sitting on eggs. No wonder the bird screamed at him so. He'd been away from London for so long he'd half forgotten how the seasons worked.
He left in the end and made his way to the park. It was odd to suddenly be back in London, when only the day before he had been in Dubai. The air felt too chilly to Bert, though it was spring and not what most Londoners would consider a cold day. It was in the park he saw some children flying a kite, and thought of the Banks children. Then of course he called himself all sorts of names for not thinking of them sooner. Jack had called them his pack; chances were good Jack might be with them. And if he wasn't, his pack should learn some of what was in the letters. Jack might not want anyone to know, but Bert did know now, and it wasn't the kind of secret that was meant to be kept.
But did the Banks family still live in the same house? The letter mentioned their house…a banker had tried to steal it. Surely it was the same house. Michael and his family had been living in it when Bert had left and why would they move?
He made his way to number 17, feeling strange. Thanks to Mary Poppins, everything had happened so quickly (as it often did around her) with no time to process. He knocked at the door, having no idea what to expect.
He certainly didn't expect Jane Banks to throw the door open, looking stressed and angry and generally projecting danger.
Bert was an alpha and she was an alpha and things could have escalated very quickly if Jane had decided to view him as an intruder. Bert offered a submissive twist to his head quickly, as was only polite as he was intruding on her family space. She lunged at him anyway.
Far from an attack, he suddenly found his arms full of distressed alpha as she hugged him so tight it hurt.
"Hey now," Bert said, instinctively holding her in return as he led them both inside the house. Ellen shut the door behind them and locked it, offering him an approving look before wandering off again towards the kitchen. Behind Jane, Bert could see several faces who had come to see what was happening but knew better than to intrude. Three children stared at him looking alternately confused and distrustful. The most distrustful was Georgie as he didn't remember Bert at all. John and Annabel could just about remember seeing him before. Bert recognized Angus as well behind the children, and Michael. Michael looked tired, and a bit confused, but mostly relieved.
"Bert, thank God," he said. "And here we thought we'd never get Jane to sleep because every alpha we trusted was far away or too old or…" He didn't finish the thought, mindful of the children and not wanting to bring up unpleasant things, but Bert's brain finished the thought for him. Or dead.
It was on the tip of Bert's tongue to ask about Kate Banks, but something made him hold back. Instead he asked what he really needed to know, because there was another person he still didn't see.
"Is Jack here?"
"Why do you want to know?" the youngest Banks demanded before anyone else could answer, his voice full of mistrust.
"It's alright, Georgie," Michael told him, gently rather than scolding because he approved of wariness towards strangers, "He's a good alpha, not a wicked alpha." Then, to Bert, "Jack is in the guest room. Well, by this point it's more of a Pack room than a guest room. You better come in and we'll put Jane to bed at last. Unless…you are tired from your journey?"
"Arrived this morning on the Mary Poppins express," Bert answered. "You don't get a better sleep than on that train."
At the mention of Mary Poppins, all three children lit up and even Michael raised an eyebrow.
"Oh," said Georgie, "Mary Poppins sent you. Why didn't you say so? Uncle Jack is this way."
Clearly, knowing Mary Poppins had removed all doubts that the children held concerning his strange and sudden appearance.
Jane finally let go of him, staggering a bit as she did so. She was clearly ready to crash, the stress of everything and the lack of sleep getting to her. Now that there really was another alpha that she trusted, trusted implicitly, half the tension inside her just dropped away and it was all she could do to walk back to the bed before she dropped into a deep sleep.
The children were a bit alarmed by this, in fact, but no one else paid her much mind, except in a vague, relieved sort of way. The adults rather expected it, and Bert was utterly distracted by finally seeing Jack. Jack watched Jane join him in the bed, blinking a lot in confusion, then turned his gaze to stare at Bert. Bert took the time to stare right back.
Bert didn't know what he expected after that last letter. 'He hit me across the face' it had said, and he could now see the bruise and 'grabbed my wrist' and there was his entire arm bound up and tied to his torso and 'used a belt'. He couldn't see those marks, but he could see the lines of pain on Jack's face, the stress as he tried to sit up, the way his face was far too pale where it wasn't a horrid mixture of purple and green and red and black. And the very fact that he was still in bed, rather than jumping up and running to him spoke volumes for the state he must be in.
"Bert?" Jack said and he sounded…well, disbelieving mostly. Bert couldn't blame him for that, considering he was supposed to be half a world away getting ready for his journey to India. The poor omega probably thought this some strange dream.
"Jack," said Bert, and then, because it had to be said and better to get it over with, "I got the letters you wrote me."
For a moment, Jack just looked confused. Then he flushed red, realization hitting him of which letters Bert must mean.
"I…I put them in the fire and let the draft take them. I didn't think…did you really get all of them? Did you…read them?"
"I read what I got," Bert answered, and Jack looked…wrong. He wasn't even looking at Bert anymore, but towards his blanket, and he looked almost ashamed, though for what Bert couldn't imagine. So Bert crossed the room and knelt on the floor at his side.
"Jack," said Bert, "What is going on inside your head?"
Jack played with the blanket a bit, and Bert waited, knowing it was sometimes hard for Jack to find the words. Michael and Angus gave them their space, and Ellen hadn't even followed them into the room, but the children weren't quite as tactful.
"He thinks it's his fault that the wicked alpha hurt him," said Georgie, his young voice a mixture of anger and indignant disbelief at this wrong thinking. "We told him that isn't true."
"Of course it isn't Jack's fault," Bert stated firmly, and was rewarded by a sideways glance from Jack, as well as the strong approval radiating off the children. Then Georgie walked up to Bert and tugged at his jacket. Bert looked down at him, having no idea what to expect.
"It isn't your fault either," said Georgie. "We all decided that too. It isn't any of our fault. It's the wicked alpha who beat him's fault; that's all."
"You come from a very smart Pack," Bert answered, and Georgie beamed. Even Jack's lips turned up in spite of the wary way he still picked at the blanket. Bert waited.
"I feel…ashamed," said Jack at long last. Georgie immediately opened his mouth, clearly intending to inform Jack how unashamed he should be, and Bert grabbed the boy's shoulder to silence him. Gently, of course, but firmly. And Michael came forward and called his children away, telling them to let Bert talk with Jack alone. In fact, he drew them right out of the room, something that had hardly been allowed since the whole mess had started, but Jane was asleep and didn't protest and Bert was on edge but more over Jack than anyone else (he knew them, even cared for them, but they weren't his Pack) and they were allowed to go.
Jack watched them go, not worried, not relieved…he just watched them go.
"Why do you feel ashamed?" Bert asked, once they were, more or less, alone. Jack returned his attention to him, still not looking him in the eye.
"I let him…"
"No," Bert interrupted. "You didn't 'let' anything. You didn't choose him. The court did. You didn't choose to be beaten; he decided to do that. And he was wrong to do it." And I might well join Jane when she goes after him, he didn't say. He just thought it very loudly.
"I didn't fight," Jack tried next. "I was too weak…"
"The person who wrote these letters didn't sound weak," Bert answered. "And he didn't sound like he'd stopped fighting. He sounded smart. He did what he could to survive and got away when he could."
"I should have told someone…someone besides you, when I knew you wouldn't really read the letters…"
"Yes, you should have," agreed Bert, and then, "But I understand why you didn't. You were trying to protect everyone. That's always been your greatest weakness, your need to protect everyone. And your greatest strength. And I'd never ever blame you for that."
And then Jack looked at him at last, looking shy and (and that horrid black eye marred his expression) and sweet and there, in the corner of his good eye, there was that spark that had been missing.
"And how did you get my letters, Bert?" he asked.
"Delivered by a boy who called me Bird, the English man who sings. And he got them off a woman who assured me she is not a postman and she doesn't read other people's letters."
"You saw Mary Poppins?" he asked, pure joy filling his face, before a bit of the shame returned. "Does she…know?"
"She's Mary Poppins," Bert answered. "If she knows anything, she'll never share it. Anyway, she led me onto a train yesterday evening with a penguin for a conductor and this morning I was in London."
"We went travelling ourselves when she was here," Jack said, the smile Bert had been missing all this while appearing at last. "To China, so to speak." And then he laughed. And it was beautiful, and for the first time since receiving those horrible letters, Bert felt a bit of tension leave him. At this moment he was certain that, come what may, Jack was going to be alright.