Honestly, I have no idea where this came from. You may want tissues.

I own nothing.

Bert stood, watching his fiancée walk down the aisle. She was beautiful in her gown, practically glowing, and Bert smiled. He would be proud to call her his wife.

There was a slight motion in the back of the church that caught his eye and Bert looked up. He wished he hadn't because he found that the moment he did, he locked eyes with the only person in the world who could possibly make him question his choice.

Mary Poppins stood at the back of the church, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. He didn't notice what she was wearing, only that her eyes seemed bluer than he remembered and that, though his bride was making her way towards him, he couldn't take his eyes off the woman standing by the door.

0ooo0

The last time he'd seen those eyes, they'd been stormy and determined, cold even as he pleaded with her to reconsider her choice. She'd pulled on that grey coat of hers and his Mary, the soft, smiling woman who slept in his bed, was gone, leaving only Mary Poppins as he remembered her at the start, all precision and careful perfection, in her place.

"I'm sorry, Bert. I've made my decision. Please respect that."

He'd always been respectful of her—she'd been the first to put the crack in their steadfast friendship so they might become more than friends, she'd been the one to kiss him, the one to take him to bed, the one to do instigate everything. And yet again, here she was, instigating the end. Well, if she wanted to go, she could go. He'd known from the beginning that Mary Poppins explained nothing and this would be no different.

She'd walked out of his life as unceremoniously as she'd waltzed in.

0ooo0

It had been years since he'd seen Mary Poppins. She hadn't returned to London for a year after her decision to leave and he had missed her terribly. Life seemed dull and depressing without her presence; it always had, but now knowing that she wouldn't return, the pain seemed infinitely more unbearable.

That was when he'd met Angelina—the very antithesis of Mary Poppins. He hadn't been instantly captivated with her, the way he'd been with Mary. They had been introduced through mutual acquaintances and Bert had honestly thought nothing of it.

Angelina was a pleasant enough girl and certainly easy on the eyes—she had an exotic, striking sort of beauty, inherited from her Spanish mother, and obvious sensuality that was stark contrast to Mary Poppins' quiet, prim attractiveness—but he loved Mary Poppins and to even look at another woman felt like a betrayal. Objectively he knew that he couldn't possibly betray a woman who had cut all ties with him, but his heart certainly said otherwise.

However, fate or possibly some other force had other plans. Bert and Angelina had run into each other again and again, and talked a little longer each time, becoming friendlier until she had suggested boldly that he might officially call on her at some point if they were going to keep doing this ridiculous dance. And so he did. They became good friends and though Bert knew he would never feel anything like he had for Mary Poppins, he certainly came to appreciate her distinct and ample charms.

She was a very funny person and gentle, without a sharp edge to anything she ever said. She loved museums and art and was a great collector of strange little baubles from foreign lands. She laughed as he'd make up tales for every new piece in her collection and he'd grin. She did have a nice laugh. She was charmed by his stories of a magical nanny and their great adventures, though he left out the ending and most of the middle. But it was nice to remember the beginning; the beginning was warm and wonderful and he missed it terribly.

It was Angelina who had suggested marriage and Bert had hesitated. "You love someone else," she intoned, sensing his reticence.

"Lina," he said, using the childhood nickname she'd given him permission to use, "you know I care about you. But..."

"You love someone else," she finished. Bert hung his head in shame. Here was a beautiful, charming, intelligent woman literally proposing to him and he couldn't bear the thought of waking up next to anyone but Mary Poppins. "That's all right, I do too."

He paused then. They'd talked extensively and for hours at a time, but she'd never mentioned anyone else, much in the way he'd never mentioned that he was madly in love with Mary Poppins, he supposed.

"He was a soldier and he fought in the war. He didn't come home."

"Oh, Lina, I'm sorry. You never said-"

"It's all right, Bert. I've made my peace with it. But I know I'll never love anyone like I loved him and, well, I suppose I just want someone to grow old with. I don't want some grand love story—I've had mine. I just want companionship, a friend. And I thought that maybe… Well, we do have such a good time together."

Bert considered what she was saying. He'd had his grand love story. Mary Poppins was the only woman he could ever love that deeply and passionately. She was his love, she had his heart. But Angelina wasn't asking for his heart. She wasn't even asking him to pretend. She was asking for friendship, and that he could give freely.

"I know you don't love me, Bert," Angelina said quietly. "Not like you love your mysterious Mary Poppins."

"But 'ow did you know-"

"I'm not stupid, Bert. You say her name in a way that would have my mother's priest accusing you of worshipping false idols. And if she were to come back… Well, I see no reason why you shouldn't be able to patch things up without a scene."

Bert's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline. If he was interpreting her correctly, Angelina had just suggested that she'd turn a blind eye to an affair. Bert considered that for a moment—the idea of having a wife at home and Mary Poppins in his bed—and then nearly laughed at the absurdity. For one, it sounded entirely exhausting. And of course, the idea suggested that Mary Poppins would consent to being the other woman. Mary Poppins, the woman of impeccable reputation even now after all they'd done, the other woman. The idea was laughable. Mary Poppins would be the one and only or nothing at all.

Besides, the idea of betraying the bond of matrimony made Bert sick. Those words, those vows, they meant something to him. Even if he were to marry Angelina and resign himself to comfortable, fond marriage rather than a loving, passionate one, it would be a marriage. She would be his wife and he would treat her with all the respect and care that such a title deserved. He wouldn't betray her any more than he would have betrayed Mary Poppins herself.

"I wouldn't do that to you, Lina. Not for anything."

"Well, you can't blame me for trying. We're kindred spirits, you and I."

She looked so sad, so broken, and Bert felt his heart break all over. She'd done wonders to help him through the loss of Mary and she deserved every happiness. Besides, if he was truly, brutally honest with himself, he knew Mary Poppins was never going to return to his life and even if she did, it couldn't possibly be the same.

"Lina, let's do it."

"What?"

He took a deep breath. "Let's get married."

0ooo0

And that was how he'd found himself standing at an altar, locking eyes with Mary Poppins while another woman walked down the aisle to become his wife.

He felt himself shaking and there was a storm in his mind. He wanted to run to her, he wanted to pick her up and swing her around and hold her close. He wanted to scream at her for how she had treated him. He wanted to take her to bed, he wanted to shout to the rooftops that he loved her, he wanted to never speak to her again. He wanted to take her by the arm and tell her she wasn't welcome in his life anymore, he wanted to take her home and forget that she'd ever left in the first place.

And so he did nothing but stand at the altar and tremble.

Angelina reached the front of the church after what seemed like an eternity. She looked over her shoulder and straight at Mary, subtly enough that none of the guests noticed. "That's her, isn't it?" she murmured quietly. It was a question but her voice held no uncertainty. Bert nodded. "She's lovely."

"Yes," Bert croaked.

"Last chance to back out, Bert," Angelina warned.

Bert looked at Mary again. Her face was just as staid and unrevealing as ever, but after a moment, her eyes flicked down to the wedding rings and she dipped her chin, nodding slowly just once. He knew what she meant.

And so he turned with a smile that was shaken and bruised and he became a married man.

He almost expected her to have disappeared by the time he turned around, but Mary Poppins was still in the back of the church and she offered him a small smile when they made eye contact again. He thought he might have seen tears in her eyes, but he blinked and they were gone.

She was at the reception too, though she stayed as far away from them as possible, save for when she came forward to congratulate the couple.

"I'm so happy for you, Bert," she said quietly, smiling as if nothing had ever happened between them. Bert was confused. And hurt. They had a past, a story, and to ignore it felt wrong. It discredited all they'd been through. "Truly."

"Mary-"

She ignored him and turned to Angelica. "You take good care of him. He's got a stubborn streak a mile long and he'll talk your ear off if you're not careful."

"It's wonderful to finally meet you, Mary Poppins," Angelica replied carefully. "Bert's told me so much about you."

The nanny's eyes flicked to Bert, but she looked away quickly. "Do take care. And congratulations."

He watched her go, hurrying off through the crowd. He was willing to wait, to confront her later but then he saw her collect her umbrella and head for the door.

"Go," Angelica urged him. "Go after her, Bert. You need to talk to her."

He still hesitated.

"Go!"

So finally he ran after the love of his life and caught her just as she was unfurling her umbrella. "Mary! Mary, wait!" he yelled, the door banging shut behind him.

"Bert, really. You're making a scene," Mary chided. "And straighten your bowtie, it's hardly presentable."

"Stop it," he demanded. "Just stop."

But she didn't listen and she continued her preparation to leave. And then something unmistakably odd and out of character took place—Herbert Alfred got angry. No, angry wasn't even the word for it. He was furious, he was livid, he was enraged. How dare this stupid, perfect woman think she had any right to turn his world upside down and leave whenever she so chose? She stuck her nose in the air and said she was perfect and made everyone's decisions for them and he was so entirely done with it. And so he made his own decision—he reached out and ripped the umbrella right out of her hand.

Mary turned, her eyes wide in a strange, potent mix of rage and confusion. "Bert," she said, breathing deeply. "You are making a scene. Go back inside and celebrate your marriage."

He could tell she was trying to keep her temper in check and had it been several years ago he would have apologized on the spot. But he didn't care anymore. She had hurt him and now he'd have his answer why, whether or not she liked it. She owed him that much.

"No. You owe me an explanation."

"Bert, I owe you nothing. I insist you give me my umbrella back this instant."

He could feel her magic in the air, prodding at his brain, trying to influence him to do her bidding. But he wouldn't be swayed. In fact, the fact that she tried to use her magic on him only served to incense him further. "No. You left me. You loved me, you let me love you, you let me make love to you and then you left. Without so much as one word. You destroyed my world without so much as a second thought and I don't care what you think should 'appen, you're not leaving me now without telling me why."

"You are married," Mary hissed. "We are in public. This is neither the time nor the place to discuss this and you are making a scene."

"I. Don't. Care."

He didn't know what happened just then. Maybe it was the hardened edge in his voice, maybe it was the coldness in his eyes, maybe she just got tired of fighting. Whatever the reason, Mary's posture softened. "Not here in the open. Follow me please."

She led him to an alley that was out of the way but surprisingly light and neat. He wasn't surprised; things always brightened up for Mary Poppins. "This is entirely inappropriate, I hope you know," she snapped. "An unmarried woman and a groom alone on his wedding day. Our reputations may never recover."

He shrugged and tightened his grip on her umbrella. "I think we're a little past worrying about reputations, don't you?"

She deflated further, as though he'd poked just one more hole in her armor by simply hinting at the nights she'd spent in his arms. "I don't know what you want me to say," she admitted.

Bert had a realization then. For the first time in their relationship, he held the cards. "I want you to tell me why you left."

"The time had come."

"Excuse me, I should 'ave been clearer," Bert corrected himself. "I want you to tell me why you left and I don't want any vague excuses or cryptic sayings. If you'd say it to an employer, I don't want to 'ear it."

Mary exhaled and bit her lip. He knew she was trying to put together the perfect words, whatever they might be. "I couldn't look at you," she said finally.

"What?"

"I couldn't look at you. I felt too guilty."

"Guilty?" Bert repeated, scratching his head. What on earth could she have felt guilty about? Well, he could think of certain things, but he'd repeatedly and sincerely offered marriage and a home and she'd always claimed that you couldn't marry the wind, and that though she loved him desperately, she wasn't made to be a wife. He'd accepted it and held her and promised the wind that she might not be his wife but she'd always have a home with him. It couldn't have been that.

"I don't know how to say this," she confessed, wringing her hands. It was a nervous habit, he knew, and part of the reason she carried the oddly out of date umbrella with her—it kept her hands at bay. "So I just… will."

"Mary, I…" He wasn't sure what he wanted to say but he knew he wanted her to stop looking so sad.

"I was pregnant," she whispered.

"I… what?"

"I was pregnant," she admitted. "Yours, of course."

Time stood still. He couldn't breathe. Suddenly everything seemed impossibly claustrophobic. "You never said…"

"I know."

And just like that, as the news sank in, the anger came roaring back. She'd kept this a secret from him! There were many, many things Bert could forgive her for, including leaving, but this… to keep his child from him when she worked so hard to fix families. No, this was unforgivable. He turned on his heel and strode out of the alley, tossing the umbrella back at her. But even as angry as he was, and he was angrier than he could ever remember being, he couldn't help but turn back and check to see that it hadn't hurt her.

"Bert, wait," she called desperately. "Bert, stop!"

But her cries fell on deaf ears. At least until he heard her yell, "Bert, please." Her voice cracked and he could just picture the tears in her eyes, dancing on her lids but too proud to fall.

He turned and crossed back to her, still fuming. "'ow could you do this to me, Mary? I don't understand. I loved you. I would 'ave done anything for you. I'd 'ave died for you. And you couldn't even tell me we 'ad a kid? Don't you think I deserved to know we 'ave a child?" He was yelling now.

He could have shaken her, he was so angry. But she looked up at him, going toe to toe with him. He wasn't that much taller than she was. "I said I was pregnant, Bert. I never said there was a child."

For what feels like the millionth time that day, Bert freezes, a sense of dread making it seem as though his entire stomach is filled with rocks.

"I was away, nannying in Germany when I found out. I meant to write you and tell you. I really did. But then…" Mary looked away, beginning to wring her hands again before she simply wrapped her arms around herself.

"Then?" he prodded gently.

He knew he saw tears this time and he put a careful, gentle hand on her arm. "I was barely three months along. I'd only found out recently myself. I just woke up in the worst pain I'd ever felt and there… there was just… blood. I went to the hospital but… it wasn't as though there was anything to be done. I don't remember much else. Just blood. And pain. And I remember that I just wanted you. I wanted you to hold me and tell me everything would be fine, that we'd make it through, that I'd make it through.

"But there were only doctors and Frau Herz, my employer. She was kind enough to pay for the medical bills and to lie about what had sent me to the hospital. The doctor told me I was lucky to be alive with the amount of blood I'd lost, but I should avoid having children. He couldn't explain it because there was absolutely no medical reason, but something in my constitution he said 'is not meant to be a mother.' I've never hated anyone more."

There were silent tears slipping down Mary's face and Bert wanted absolutely nothing more than to wipe them away, but the distance between them was too great.

"I couldn't face you, knowing what I knew. I just kept thinking if only I'd loved you even more, if only I'd agreed to marry you… maybe it was supposed to be my punishment for flouting convention, for thinking I could have you and my work. After all, that work took me away from you in the first place. But then I realized it couldn't possibly have anything to do with any of that. I loved you more than anything in the world, I had loved you enough, and I wanted that child more than I'd ever wanted anything. And the universe does not punish unwed mothers or I shouldn't have ever worked in the home of one. It was me. There's something about me that failed. I can't have children for no reason other than what I am. I didn't want that for you. I thought if I could spare you the pain and suffering… well, perhaps that was the reason I was so far away from home when it happened. So I kept it from you and I decided to leave."

Bert realizes his cheeks are wet. He's been crying along with Mary, and he can't be bothered to wipe the tears away. "But you came 'ome after Germany," he realized.

"You deserved a better goodbye than a letter, Bert," she said, smiling sadly. "You've always deserved better. And now… now you have it." She nodded to the ring on his finger. "She'll make you very happy, this Angelica. And you deserve that."

His hand was still on her arm and he tightened his grip. He couldn't let her go. Not again. Not now. "Mary, I love you," he pleaded. "I always 'ave and I always will."

"Oh, don't be dramatic," she responded, sounding more like her old self. She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek before carefully extricating herself from his hold. "You've got a wonderful new wife and a future full of love and laughter. With time, she'll become a whole section in your life, while I'll merely be a paragraph in a long and happy story."

She nodded then and unfurled her umbrella. "I do hope in time you'll forgive me, Bert. Or at least understand."

"I already 'ave, Mary. Just stay 'ere. Stay with me."

"It can't be, Bert. I do love you, but you've an obligation now and I… well, the winds have changed. I do so hope to see you again one day. Goodbye."

She was gone before he could say anything else. He touched his cheek where she'd kissed him. "Goodbye, Mary Poppins," he whispered, as he started to return to his wedding reception. "Don't stay away too long."

She'd been wrong, he thought, with her book metaphor. Angelina might become a whole section in his life, just as she'd suggested. But Mary Poppins was no paragraph. She was no chapter, no section. She wasn't the beginning, the middle, or the end of the story of his life.

No, Mary Poppins wasn't just part of his story. Mary Poppins was the ink.