I really love the song "On The Front Porch" written by the Sherman Brothers, so I wrote something based on it.

As always, I own nothing.

It was a cold night in London. Bert sighed and pulled another few blankets out of the chest at the foot of his bed. He didn't want to stoke up the fire and the blankets were his only recourse from the chill that had invaded his flat. It wouldn't be so bad, but he was rather lonely and it was cold.

"Come now, Bert," he murmured to himself. "You can't be thinking like that."

Because the truth was, it wasn't as though he couldn't find someone to share his bed with him—he was a handsome man and charming. Women did seem to adore him (he wasn't being vain—Bert didn't have a vain bone in his body—he was simply being honest about what he'd observed). But the truth was, there was only one woman in the world he wanted to share his bed with, and she simply had better things to do.

Mary Poppins, he was sure, was above such basic things, though he knew she did need sleep (for the way her nose crinkled when she stifled a yawn was simply captivating to him) and he knew that she wasn't completely naïve in the matters of the bedroom (for some of the jokes she told out of the company of children were simply wicked and though she'd always deny it violently if anyone accused her of a bawdy sense of humor, there would be an unmistakable twinkle in her eye). But as for the baser urges, well, she was lady and she'd never expressed any interest, at least to him, and so he would never even think of it. Well, he vowed to stop thinking about it the moment he started to think about it.

And so Bert wrapped himself up in several blankets and climbed into bed to try and catch up on some of the sleep he'd been missing out on lately. (He never slept as well in the few days after Mary Poppins departed London.)

His mind calmed and the world became softer and warmer until finally, finally he slept.

. . .

It was warm and he was sitting on a front porch in a rocking chair. That was odd—he lived in the middle of London in a flat and here he was, sitting on the large porch of a beautiful, old farmhouse out in the country. Then he remembered that he must be dreaming.

The wooden slats of the house were yellow with a white trim and the door was the beautiful blue of a robin's egg. It was the sort of house he'd draw in the background of a picture for him and Mary to explore. He'd only admitted it once to a certain nanny, but it was actually the sort of house he'd dreamed of owning since he was a little boy—spacious but cozy, with enough room for a couple kids and a dog to run around, far away from London so they could do so without fear. It was the sort of house he knew he could never afford in a million years, but he wasn't bitter. He was doing what he loved, and his current occupation of doing whatever he felt needed to be done that day allowed him the freedom to be at Mary Poppins' beck and call. And that, he felt, was worth several houses out in the country.

"Are the details right?"

He jumped up and turned around. Standing in the doorway was Mary Poppins, looking even more stunning than he possibly could have remembered. (He was always stunned when he saw her again—it was as though his brain wasn't quite capable of cataloguing the brightness of her eyes and the richness of her hair.)

Bert might have drawn her, she was so picturesque. She was wearing a dusty rose colored skirt (that was kind of his mind to include, he thought—he adored her in pink but she so rarely wore it, claiming it a frivolous color for clothing though it brought out the rosiness of her cheeks to perfection—Bert had an artist's eye and that was why he noticed these things; it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he couldn't stop his eyes from drinking her in) and just a plain shirtwaist with the familiar cameo fastened at the base of her throat. An apron was fastened around her waist and he knew there'd be a perfect bow holding it together (Mary would never settle for anything less). Her hair was still pulled away from her face as it always was, but somehow it was softer, a little less careful. There were more tendrils around her face, dancing in the gentle breeze. She just somehow seemed softer altogether—she looked at home both in her skin and in this place.

"Well?" she prompted him, reminding him of her question.

"You did this? But I'm dreaming, aren't I?"

She nodded. "Yes. But indulge me and pretend."

"It's perfect, Mary," he breathed.

Her shoulders rounded a bit from her perfect posture, as though she had let out a breath she'd been holding. She was even more charming, slumped a little as she now was. "I couldn't remember the details exactly, and I must admit, the colors are a bit fanciful but I thought you'd like them."

"They're just perfect," he said. "Everything is."

And it was. Because though in his childhood dreams the house was blue and the door red, this house was better. This house was the house, he allowed himself to imagine, that would result if he and Mary Poppins were to make the decisions together. His house from his childhood imaginings was just that—his. This house was theirs.

"Oh, good," she replied. "I made lemonade."

In her hands was a tray with two picture perfect glasses of lemonade (three ice cubes each, because, as Mary always reminded him, any more would water the drink down intolerably and any less wouldn't properly cool the glass) and a glass pitcher. She crossed to him and nodded to the glasses so he'd take one. When he had, she put the tray down on a table placed beside the rocking chairs and collected the second one so she could sit next to him.

"How are you getting on?" she asked. It was such a strange question—entirely mundane and ordinary in this land of dreams—that he nearly laughed. She frowned. "What? I don't think that's an entertaining question at all!"

"It's just… oh, Mary, it's hard to explain!" he chuckled. He reached out and patted her knee. "Don't fret, love."

She gave him a strange look and he realized exactly what he'd just called her. It had been instinct, he hadn't even thought about it. "Mary, I'm sorry!" he apologized quickly, not wanting to ruin this perfect moment with a stupid, boneheaded mistake. "I didn't mean-"

"Bert!" she laughed. Her laugh was musical, the sound of bells and water jumbled together, and he vowed to make sure that she'd make the sound as often as possible in his company. "It's all right, I don't mind! Not here, anyway."

He cocked his head, a little unsure of himself. "Well, you are dreaming, are you not?" she asked, and she sounded so much like she did while on the clock that he almost doubted it.

"Yes…" he said slowly.

She reached out and took his hand in hers. "Then what's the harm?"

His head was in turmoil—her hand was soft and comfortable in his and their fingers laced together as though there was nowhere else they were ever supposed to be. She wasn't wearing gloves and he could feel a callous or two on her palm that gave away that even with all her magic, Mary Poppins did not shirk work. Somehow that was better than if her hand had been as smooth as he'd imagined.

Even in his wildest dreams, he'd never held her hand. He'd never kissed her or held her. Even in his dreams, he didn't want to make her uncomfortable. "Mary, I…" he said with a gulp, wanting to explain everything. That he loved her, that he wanted the world for her, and also that he didn't want her just like this as a fabrication of an overactive imagination.

"I know," she said quietly before he could say anything more and he got the feeling that she did know. "But it's all we have right now. Please, Bert?"

She'd never asked anything of him before and he was powerless to deny her, even in his dreams. And so they sat comfortably in their rocking chairs, hands entwined and resting comfortably on her thigh. After awhile, she stood up and tugged him with her, flicking her eyes to the wooden swing hanging from the roof.

He got the memo loud and clear, and for the first time decided to take charge of the situation. Using his hold on her hand, he pulled her close and danced her across the porch. Mary threw her head back and laughed, squeezing his hand as her skirt whirled out around her and her hair fell from its pins. When they reached the swing, she was breathless and rosy-cheeked and messy and she was positively enchanting. She pulled him to sit next to her and when he did, promptly placed her head on his shoulder, her hand resting on his knee. He stiffened—this was more intimate than any other moment that had ever come before—but then when she didn't object, he wrapped an arm around her.

Her breath was even and her hair soft against his cheek and she was perfect. She was simply everything to him and he wanted to never wake up from this dream.

But he did have to wake up and Mary Poppins knew it. She stood up and smoothed her skirt. "It's time, Bert," she said quietly.

"Mary, I…" he tried again. He had to tell her that he loved her, even if only in a dream. He just needed to say it.

She put a finger to his lips. "I know," she said. "Believe me, I know."

In his overactive imagination, he thought perhaps there was an unspoken sentiment of returned affection.

"I don't want to go," he said, trying not to be disappointed.

"Don't pout," she chided gently. "It's unbecoming. And we'll be back."

"'ow do you know?" he asked, just to be difficult. He just didn't want this to end; he wanted to hold her forever.

"Are you truly asking that?" Mary replied, a twinkle in her eye. And of course he wasn't—she was Mary Poppins. Of course she knew and of course she wouldn't explain.

"Well, when then?" he wanted to know.

She smiled cryptically. "When the time is right. But you must be patient."

He should have known better than to ask. "I can wait," he promised. "I'd wait forever for you, Mary."

"Just one last thing before you go," she said quietly and he waited patiently as promised. She stepped closer and tilted onto her toes, pressing her lips to his gently. Her lips were full and sweet against his and when he kissed her back, her lips somehow tasted exactly like sunshine. Never in his wildest dreams had he ever thought kissing her would be as painfully delicious as it was. And when they parted, his world shattered before rebuilding itself.

"Mary-"

"It's just a dream, Bert," she reminded him. "It isn't real."

"Maybe not, but 'ow I feel about you sure is!" he retorted. There. He'd said it. Only in a dream and not to the real her, but at least to the beautiful dream she was.

"Farewell, Bert. Take care of yourself."

"You do the same, Mary. And come 'ome soon."

The world went fuzzy again and she was gone.

. . .

He woke up in bed alone. For a moment, he was bitter. How could his brain do that to him—give him Mary Poppins only to take her away in mere seconds? But then he remembered the softness of her lips and the feel of her hand and he realized that maybe he couldn't have that in his real life, but she had promised they'd return there, to that place that felt more like home than anywhere else ever had, and even if she was a dream, he believed her.

Of course, Bert had no way of knowing that floating on a cloud somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean, Mary Poppins was sitting pensively, the corners of her lips refusing to lie flat, instead turning up into a small smile as she ran her fingertips over them, tracing the spots where she could still feel his lips against hers.