AN: This little piece has some admittedly "out there" elements to it, and it's mostly just for fun. I'm dedicating it to my friend, Laura. She knows why!

(I'm not attempting to write Bert's accent phonetically, though I highly recommend reading it that way in your head.)

I own nothing from Mary Poppins.

I hope you enjoy! If you do, please consider leaving a comment or review to let me know! Thank you!

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Bert always knew what to expect from a certain kind of wind, but the "whens" and the "hows" were always a bit of a surprise.

He suspected that she could come and go freely, as she wished, but he wasn't fully aware of all of her abilities, and he knew better than to press. When Mary was sweet…well, she was every bit as sweet as the spoonful of sugar she often sang about to her wards, but it was better not to provoke her. She had a bit of a temper. Of course, Bert thought her temper was endearing—adorable, really—but he didn't dare say that to Mary.

He usually ran into her when she had a new ward. The wind would change, and he would feel it. There was something that he could sense. He'd long ago figured out that when the wind shifted, and she was coming back to London, he could sense that everything was going to somehow be right with the world.

At the very least, for some short period of time, things would be right with his world.

When the wind shifted for her to leave, Bert always felt mixed emotions. He knew that she'd done her job. Someone's life was better for her having been there, but the person—and their family—was finally ready to live their lives well, and to do that without her.

Someone else's good fortune was always Bert's loss. He was happy for her—happy for to have anything and everything she needed to be fulfilled—but he always felt a certain emptiness when she was gone again.

Like a boat adrift, without an anchor.

Mary had once described Bert in that manner, when she was somewhat scolding him for some behavior or another, but he hadn't been angry with her. The description was accurate. He'd always been like that—a free spirit. That's what he said. That was how he described his choices. The truth was, he sometimes craved the settled, anchored life.

But the only anchor that he'd ever truly wanted in the world was Mary. For her, Bert figured, he could stay in place. He could straighten up. He could choose a steady job, with a more reliable income. He could live that kind of life that others lived, and most seemed to enjoy.

Bert couldn't tie her down, though. She wouldn't let him, he was sure—not that he'd ever had the courage to ask. But even if she would allow it—if she'd tolerate the loss of her freedom, he could never tie her down knowing that she hadn't stayed with him entirely of her own free will.

To break her spirit would destroy his.

Already, Bert knew, they were much more tied together than anyone might imagine—maybe even more than Mary imagined—and he loved her enough that he couldn't bear to see her be anything but happy, even if it often meant that he wasn't quite as happy as he sometimes dreamed that he could be, if he could be with her always.

Once the wind shifted, Bert waited.

He went about his days as he normally did. He worked whatever job appealed to him. He gathered enough money, throughout the days, to pay his bills, buy his food, and to put a few coins aside, most of the time, for an emergency or a light day.

Still, in the back of his mind, he was always sort of holding his breath, waiting to see when and where she would show up.

If they were surrounded by people, he would have to truly temper everything. He could let on that they knew each other—even that they were old friends—but nothing more. If only the wards were present, however many there may be, Bert could be a bit more friendly and a bit more open about the abilities that he did know that Mary possessed.

If they were alone, though—well, those were the times that Bert treasured the most. Although Bert felt that he never had the courage to be fully open with Mary about how he felt about her, when they were alone, he came the closest to being entirely sincere.

For that reason, when he saw her, after holding his breath for what felt like a week since he'd noted the change in the air, his pulse had kicked up rapidly to see that she was standing alone, her hands clasped in front of her, waiting for him to notice her presence.

He smiled. He couldn't help but smile. The very thought of her brought a smile to his face, and her presence made it impossible for him to do anything else.

"Mary Poppins," he said, leaving the easel where he was doing portraits and other various renderings for anyone who wanted to buy one.

"It's lovely to see you again, Bert," Mary said. She gave him a smile. It was sincere, but there was still something in the smile that struck him. The twinge in his gut was inexplicable, really, but it was there, nonetheless.

He frowned at her and furrowed his brow.

"No children?" He asked.

She made a face—anyone who didn't know her as well as he did might have missed it. She opened her mouth as though she might say something. Then, she closed it, clearly thinking better of things.

"It's Tuesday, Bert," she said, simply, after a second had passed.

Bert smiled. His stomach was no more settled than it had been, but he had the distinct feeling that she didn't want him to put on too much of a show of concern, so he decided to put on a bit of a show in the other direction.

He smiled broadly and, lightly pressing a hand to her elbow, he directed her toward his easel.

"Well! How about that! Easy to lose track of the days when every day's an adventure," he declared. "How about a drawing? I'm doing portraits—not that any artist could ever come close to capturing the likeness of Mary Poppins."

She blushed slightly and gave him a sideways look.

"Bert—I believe I'll graciously decline," Mary said.

Bert felt the twisting sensation in his gut again.

"A walk, then?" He asked. "Nice day for it. Could have a picnic somewhere. Looks like it might rain later, but…"

"Do you think we could—go somewhere a bit more…quiet?" Mary asked.

Bert felt as if he'd been splashed with cold water. Her tone, her facial expression, and even the request stirred up something inside of him. Something was not right, and the very anxiety of what that might be—every possibility available—that might make Mary Poppins speak to him that way, made Bert practically lightheaded.

But it was clear that she needed something. She needed him. After all, she'd come to him. She'd sought him out. And, for that reason, he felt like he had to hold it together. He had to be, for her, whoever it was that she seemed to believe him capable of being.

He put on the best smile he could, trying not to give away his anxiety. He hoped it might help to soothe whatever storm it seemed was brewing just beneath the exterior for her.

He could put on a smile, but he couldn't quite get his voice to cooperate entirely.

"Certainly, we can," he said. He began collecting up his things. They were, on the whole, unobserved, and he probably could have been as open with her as he pleased, but he decided to be guarded for a bit. He shouldered his things, slipped an arm through hers in a familiar but respectable manner, and walked with her some distance away from where he'd been working all morning. They didn't speak until they'd walked a few moments. Bert cleared his throat. "Anywhere in particular you'd like to go?"

"Somewhere quiet," Mary said. "Private?"

She said the last word with a furrowed brow. Her eyes darted back and forth a bit as she searched his face, looking for disapproval.

"We could…pop in anywhere you like," Bert offered. He held up a finger and directed her toward a shaded spot on the sidewalk. "Wait right there—I've got just the thing."

She stood by as he drew it out. It needed to only be a sketch; he knew. She'd take care of the rest. She watched as he used his chalks to draw out the little quiet café scene.

"Bit of sun," he said. "Not too much. A pot of tea. Now, there—the perfect place to rest and have a bit of a chat."

"It's perfect, Bert," Mary assured him.

He looked around. Nobody was milling about on the street around them. Nobody was paying them any attention.

"Now's our chance," he offered.

She slipped her hand into his and he felt her tighten her grip—a squeeze that was comforting and thrilling at the same time. He would never quite say that he was used to the sensation that followed, but it didn't cause quite the reaction that it had the first time.

As soon as they were there, he looked around at her handiwork.

"Far beyond anything I could do," he said, dusting off his clothes. Mary, beside him, dusted hers off, as well.

"I couldn't have done it without you," Mary offered.

Bert moved to the table by the café that was ready for them—their hot pot of tea already waiting with a nice setting for the both of them. He put his things down to the side, and then he pulled out a chair and gestured to Mary that she should sit. She did, and he took his seat across the table from her. She poured the tea, and he prepared his to his liking while she did the same.

"You want me to call a waiter?" He asked. "Would you like—something to eat?"

"No," Mary said. "Tea will suffice."

"You want to—tell me what's wrong?"

She looked at him. There was a flash of fear, maybe in her eyes, but it was followed by anger. She did that. She often did that. If something rattled her, in any way, she'd replace the emotion with anger. It wasn't sincere anger, and it didn't last. Bert knew that it was just her way to keep feelings at bay that she didn't want to feel.

"I've known you practically my whole life. Haven't I, Mary? It doesn't happen all that often, but I can sense when there's something wrong, as surely as I can sense when the wind's changed. You wanted to go somewhere quiet. Somewhere private. We're so alone that—nobody will ever know we were here. Tell me what's on your mind. Always happy to lend an ear to you, Mary Poppins."

Mary looked around. She drew in a deep breath, let it out with a bit of a sigh, and tasted her tea. Bert waited quietly, feeling as though that were the best thing that he could do. When she put her tea down, she made eye contact with him.

"I came to tell you that—this is my last job, Bert," Mary said.

The words made Bert's stomach sink, even as his mind went to work actively rejecting them.

"What do you mean?" He asked. "Your…last job of the year?"

"My last job as a nanny," Mary said.

"What? But—you're Mary Poppins!" Bert said. "You love those kids, and don't think you can fool me, for a minute, into believing you don't…"

She smiled. It was one of the first that he'd believed since the smile she'd given him upon merely seeing him.

"I wouldn't tell just anyone, but…I do care for them," Mary said.

"You love them," Bert reiterated. "Why would you give up something you love so much?"

Her smile renewed and she half-shrugged a shoulder.

"Sometimes, one tires of…simply being a nanny," Mary said. "Sometimes, one wants more."

"More?" Bert asked.

"And…it doesn't matter anyway," Mary said. "Not now, Bert. I came to inform you, not to ask your advice. What's done is done."

"What's done?" Bert asked.

He wanted to ignore the fact that his heart was pounding, but he couldn't. He wanted to ignore the shortness of breath and the overall shaky feeling that seemed to be invading his hands and legs. Underneath the table, he flexed his fingers and dragged his palms on his pants as discreetly as possible, to dry the sweat from them, but he didn't dare reach for a teacup and give himself away entirely when it, undoubtedly, would shake with the tremor he practically felt running through his entire body.

Mary drank from her own tea, a little more slowly than usual, but there was nothing that Bert could do except wait. When she was done, she looked at him as though she'd taken that time to think about things and realized that she was really quite bored with him.

"Listen, Bert—I wanted to tell you, because…"

"Because?" He asked, when she stopped.

"You deserve to be told, in person, by me," Mary said.

"Forgive me, Mary, but I'm still not exactly clear what you're telling me," Bert said.

"Bert—I'm here on my final job as a nanny. Very soon, things will be obvious, and it will no longer be acceptable for me to be a nanny. It will be time for me to…take on a new role. A much more personal role."

"What role is that?" Bert asked.

"A mother," Mary said. "Bert—I am…in the family way."

Bert felt like the words slammed into him. He felt like all the air left his lungs and all the blood left his face. In their place, perhaps, came the anger that seemed to seep in and take the place of everything that had been there before.

He had no claim to her. He knew he had no claim. He'd never had the courage to tell her how desperately he wished to even feel like he had half a chance to be more to her.

But he'd never imagined, either, that someone else might take that place.

It wasn't, of course, that he thought that she couldn't find a man—she could have had her choice of all the men in London and, really, the whole world—but he'd thought that she'd enjoyed her freedom.

And, perhaps, a part of him had always somehow imagined that, if she were to ever decide that she was tired of being free, she would be happy to settle down next to him—for always.

Now, faced with this, he was suddenly deflated to a point that he couldn't imagine trying to get through the rest of this—whatever it was. He couldn't imagine drinking tea, or sharing conversation. He couldn't imagine popping back out of here with her, hand-in-hand, and walking down the sidewalk together until she took her leave of him. He couldn't imagine stopping to pick up something for supper, and taking something by her Uncle Albert's house—as was his habit—to check on the man before retiring, alone, to his own quiet, lonely little home.

It struck Bert that he'd never felt truly lonely before. He'd never felt truly alone. In the back of his mind, he'd always been drifting about, merrily, waiting for her to come. He'd never had an anchor—not really—but some part of him had always imagined that, someday, she would come to him. Someday, they would have a life together.

Now, he was simply adrift, alone, and he found that he had truly very little hope for a world in which Mary wasn't his—and never would be.

"Well…that's just wonderful," Bert said, not trying to disguise his anger or his hurt. "I hope you and he are very happy together."

"What?" Mary asked. Her expression showed some confusion, but there was something else there.

"Your husband," Bert said. "Whoever he is…nice of you to think enough of your old pal Bert to tell me about him, by the way. Coo—enjoyed my invitation to the wedding, I did!"

"What are you talking about?" Mary asked, her face going a bit red.

"You are married, aren't you?" Bert asked, starting to feel confused.

"I'm quite unmarried, thank you!" She responded.

Bert stopped. Some of the proverbial wind left his sails, and he sank back into his chair.

"Well—I don't know what to say…" he said.

"That's certainly never stopped you before," Mary said, sharply.

"You didn't…marry someone you never told me about?" Bert asked.

"I didn't marry anyone," she said, practically hissing at him.

"I beg your pardon," Bert said with a healthy dose of frustration. "But I'm not sure that makes things better!" He softened, suddenly, as certain parts of his brain seemed to actually kick into working along with the rest of them—now processing a little more than simple anger and disappointment. "Wait a minute—are you saying…someone…took advantage of you?"

Her eyes grew large.

"I'm saying nothing of the sort!" She said. "Bert…I believe you're misunderstanding me entirely."

"You said you're in the family way," Bert said.

"Yes," Mary said. "I am."

"And—just to be clear…" Bert stopped and looked around. He remembered, then, that they were entirely alone. "We are talking about…a baby."

"Yes…of course," Mary said. "For that reason, I can't continue to work as a nanny. Oh—you do understand societal expectations. As a mother, I'll be taking care of my own child, and besides that…people will wonder about my husband."

"But there's no husband," Bert said. Mary shook her head. "But the baby's father…"

The furrow between her brows softened and, finally, she laughed at him. Bert felt angry, simply because of the laughter. That, on top of the frustration and shock didn't make him feel too affectionate toward her, at the moment.

"I don't see what's so funny," he said. "You're the one telling me that you're sitting here, talking about having a child out of wedlock, and you're acting as if you don't have a care in the world. Frankly, I'm surprised by you."

"There isn't a father, Bert," Mary said.

"No father?" Bert asked.

Mary shook her head. She hummed in the negative.

"No father," she reiterated.

"No husband?" He asked.

"Certainly not," Mary said.

"A beau?" Bert asked.

She gave him a half-smile and her cheeks ran a little pink.

"Well—I believed there to be something of the sort, before," she said. "Though, this meeting is making me doubt my earlier confidence. Perhaps, I shouldn't have assumed."

Bert's heart began to pound as his mind unraveled her meaning.

"A baby must have a father," he said, finally. "That's how…all of that works."

"I'm aware that's one way it can work," Mary said, putting quite a bit of emphasis on the word "can." "However, that's certainly not the only way, Bert."

She picked up the teapot and refreshed her tea. She moved to do the same for Bert, but realized he hadn't really touched his, so she replaced the teapot on the table.

"Not the only way…" Bert stammered.

She lifted her eyebrows and smirked at him even over the side of her teacup.

"Do drink your tea, Bert. Even here, certain laws of nature do apply, and it does get cold," Mary said.

"The tea?" He stammered. "You think I care a thing about the tea?"

"Don't look at me as though you were a codfish," Mary said. "Bert—it's really not that complicated."

"Well, it surely isn't that simple," he countered. "And, you know, I'm used to that when it comes to things with you. But—this is a new thing altogether."

Mary drew in a breath and sighed.

"I never explain myself, Bert," she said. That had, of course, been her go-to explanation for as long as he'd known her—and he'd known her for most of their lives.

"Then, explain the baby, and not yourself," Bert said. "How can there be a baby when there is no father?"

She sighed and rolled her eyes, shaking her head. She raised her hand and snapped. Bert jumped at the loudness of the snap.

"What the devil is that supposed to mean?" Bert asked.

"One does tire of being only a nanny," Mary said. "And…in the absence of a suitable father for things to happen in what you might call the more traditional manner…well…one is really quite capable of wishing things into existence, in a matter of speaking."

"Wishing them into existence?" Bert said.

"They just sort of…pop into existence," Mary said.

"Pop into existence, but you're…in the family way," Bert said.

"Repetition is beginning to bore me, Bert," she said.

"Well—forgive me," Bert said, somewhat offended that she would say that. "What you mean to say is that…witches…because that's what we're talking about it, isn't it? Witches can…make a wish and suddenly there's a baby?"

"Don't say that word. You know I don't care for it, and it isn't entirely accurate," Mary warned.

"My apologies," Bert said, sincerely, but with no less frustration. "Why not pop the baby all the way here, and be done with it?"

Mary laughed. It did something to help relieve some of the stress in Bert's muscles, and he was glad of it.

"In a manner of speaking, I suppose…I shall do just that," Mary said. "Though, everything from here happens in what you might call a traditional manner. You're oversimplifying things a bit. There are things that can be done with magic, and there are things that are simply the result of love and nurturing. Babies require at least an element of both."

"For—people like you," Bert said.

"In the absence of a purely traditional route, yes," Mary said. "I wanted to…be a mother."

Bert felt struck, again, but this time it was as if someone had punched him, hard, right in the chest.

"You won't stay?" He asked.

She laughed quietly.

"I'll stay until the wind changes," she said. "I think I can keep things well concealed for the time being. I'll finish the job that I have to do, and then I'll be…retired."

"Back to wherever it is that you go," Bert said, "when you're…between jobs."

"Right," Mary said. "Besides—it's hardly as if I could stay in London, Bert. Although you and I know that I've committed no…I've committed no real act of impropriety, I'm afraid that society won't see it that way. If I were to stay in London, all they would see would be an unwed mother. That's why I wanted to come, really. More than the job, I wanted to tell you, Bert, why I wouldn't be back—at least for quite some time. You deserve that, and I wouldn't want to leave without…"

She paused. The ache in Bert's chest had spread, now, to his throat. Everything around them, it seemed, had disappeared enough, to him, that he could have been convinced that she hadn't even popped them into the rough picture that he'd drawn. It felt as if they'd been popped directly into some kind of blank space. Nothing existed beyond this moment. Nothing existed beyond the pain that Bert felt—a pain that made him feel like breathing was beyond him. Nothing existed beyond Mary.

"I wouldn't want to leave without a proper goodbye, Bert," Mary managed, finally, sounding as though she'd half-choked on the words. She sipped her tea, as though the cooled liquid could wash down whatever crumbs of the words had caught in her throat.

"Don't," Bert managed.

"What?" She asked, raising her eyebrows. There was a hint of alarm there in her expression and her tone.

"Don't say goodbye, Mary," Bert said.

She laughed, but Bert knew it wasn't sincere.

"Don't be absurd," she said. "What am I to do, then?"

"Stay in London," Bert said.

"I'll never be accepted as a single mother," Mary said.

"No," Bert said. "But—what about a married one?"

She looked at him, surprised. He was also quite surprised. He meant it, of course, but he hadn't expected, when he woke this morning, to propose marriage to Mary Poppins.

"What?" She asked.

"Marry me," Bert said. "Stay in London. Marry me. Be a proper wife and mother. Be anything you want to be. You want to be a mother. I want to be a father. The father to your child—to any child that would call you mother."

"Are you mad?" Mary asked him.

Bert laughed in response. He nodded.

"I think I am," he said. "Madly in love with you. Look…" He moved, dropping down to a knee beside the table, so that he could do this at least somewhat properly. He took her hand, though she was still staring at him a bit wide-eyed. "I've thought of asking you a thousand times. But—I never would've tied you down. You liked your freedom…"

"My freedom? Bert—since I've known you…"

"I know," he interrupted. He laughed at her shocked face. She wasn't accustomed to being interrupted. "I know. I've been…adrift, like a ship without an anchor. That's what you've told me before. Well—be my anchor. Marry me, Mary Poppins." He half-shook her hand, trying to shake her out of the shock that had settled over her. "Besides—anyone else wouldn't know you half as well as I do. You'd have to explain everything to them…and I know how much you hate to explain yourself."

"Bert," she said, softly, after a moment, brow furrowed, "are you…serious?"

"Serious enough that I'm not that sure I've meant anything more in my whole life," Bert said.

"But—children require stability…routine…so many things."

"I think we can handle that," Bert said. "All of it. Anything our children may need. I've been meaning to look for an honest job. Something steady and proper. We'll get a nice little house."

"You hate being tied to one job," Mary said.

"I'd hate seeing you go more," Bert said. "Besides, I…kind of like the idea of being a husband. Master of the house. A father. I'm liking it more, the longer I think about it."

"Bert…the baby's…well…it's already here. Not here, but…"

Bert laughed.

"I so rarely see you flustered, I forget how beautiful you are when you're not sure how to explain something," Bert said. He winked at her. "Not that you'd ever explain a thing. Do you have cause to believe anyone would ever question my being the father? If I was your wedded husband?"

"Even if we married right away, the baby would arrive early, from others' perspective," Mary said.

"How early?" Bert challenged.

"A month. Nearly two," Mary said.

"Babies come when they come," Bert said. "And there might be room for a bit of magic, who knows? Either way, I'd challenge anyone to say the child wasn't mine, no matter when it arrives."

Her cheeks flushed and Bert squeezed her hand to draw her back to him.

"What do you say, Mary?" He asked. "Marry me and make me the happiest man in the world?"

"Are you quite serious?" She asked, again.

"I know a little parsonage not far outside of the city," Bert said. "For a donation of less money than I brought in today, you can be a married woman before the sun sets…and I'll be the happiest man alive."

"The family I'm working for…" Mary said.

"You can work a bit of magic," Bert said. "Tell them you were sure you told them that…you're only taking the job until your husband has the chance to set up a proper house for you. Tell them anything you want. Just—when the wind changes, let it blow you right into my arms, and never anywhere else."

"Oh…Bert…get up!" Mary said. "Your pants will get soiled."

Bert laughed at her, but he did stand. He took her hands and pulled her up from her seated position.

"Does that mean you'll marry me?" He asked.

"I'd hoped you'd ask a thousand times before," she said. "I thought you would—a time or two. But I never wanted to tie you down, as you said. Not until you were ready. I only feared…that might never come."

"I'm ready now," Bert said. "Right this minute. Pop us out of here and we'll be at the parsonage before you can say 'Bob's your uncle.'"

"We're not dressed for a wedding," Mary said.

"Somehow, I have confidence you can work something up for us along the way," Bert said. She smiled at him sincerely. His pulse kicked up in the best way possible. "Well? What do you say?"

"I've always loved you, Bert," Mary said.

"And I've always loved you," he confessed.

"I didn't know. I didn't…expect this…and the baby, well…it's unconventional," Mary said. "Are you sure that you're OK with that?"

Bert laughed.

"With you, everything's a bit unconventional," Bert said. "And I don't want to spend a moment more of my life without you."

She smiled and nodded.

"Well—we better hurry, then," Mary said. "So, we can get to the parsonage and you can still see me back by a proper hour. Even if we are married, and even if I convince him that I already told him about our marriage, I do still have a job to complete, and my employer will want to meet my husband."

Bert gathered his things, took her hand tightly in his, and kissed it. He winked at her.

"Whenever you're ready," he said. She tightened her grip on his hand and he felt them moving once again—this time toward a future, together, that he was sure would be more exciting than anything he'd ever known. Even if, for the first time in his life, Bert was about to be settled, in the most wonderful way imaginable.

111

AN: I know that Bert's name is supposed to be Herbert Alfred, but is that first and last, or first and middle? Do we have an agreed upon surname?

I hope you enjoyed! If you did, please consider leaving a comment or review to let me know!