Work Text:
The late-afternoon sun of April 1910 filters through the fresh green leaves of St. James's Park, casting dappled, dusty gold across the worn asphalt paths of Westminster. It is a world of impeccable formality and underlying grit. Mary Poppins glides, rather than walks, her dark coat tailored to an uncompromising severity, her parasol hooked precisely over her arm. She is a vision of crisp starch and bone china, utterly composed, yet beneath the pristine exterior, a restless, knowing energy pulses. Her gloves, white as new snow, feel tight across her knuckles as they approach the eastern gate.
Jane and Michael, dressed in their neat woolen coats and stockings, trail behind, their attention fixed on the puddles left by the morning rain, completely unaware of the subtle, charged tension that settles over Mary’s shoulders. She knows who waits here. She can feel his presence like a low, resonant note played just beneath the threshold of hearing, a familiar tremor of anticipation that has always been hers alone when he is near.
While walking in a park, the trio encounters Mary’s friend Bert, a jack-of-all-trades who works as a street painter. He is utterly engrossed in his craft, positioned flat upon the pavement, his body a chaotic tableau of dust, charcoal, and vibrant chalk smears. His broad shoulders strain the seams of his corduroy jacket as he leans in to finesse a line, the muscles of his arms—thick and ropey from years of physical, outdoor work—flexing under the fabric. The back of his neck, grimy with soot that never quite washes away, is damp from exertion. He’s sketching a startlingly vivid, almost three-dimensional scene of a clipper ship sailing on a turquoise sea. The rich, chalky scent of the pavement art—a mix of dry earth, paint pigment, and London smog—drifts up the path.
He is singing to himself as they approach, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that carries the rough-hewn charm of the working streets, perfectly timed to the rhythmic scrape of chalk against the stone.
“Chim chiminy, chim chiminy chim chim cheroo I does what I likes and I likes what I do. Hello, art lovers.”
Bert pushes himself back onto his knees, sweeping a hand through his perpetually wind-whipped hair. He beams at the small gathering crowd—mostly nursemaids and soldiers—his eyes crinkling at the corners, radiating a sheer, uncomplicated joy in his work. The children stop short, mesmerized by the explosion of color at their feet, a temporary masterpiece that the next rainfall will erase.
“Today I’m a screever and as you can see, A screever’s an artist of highest degree, And it’s all me own work, From me own memory.”
His gaze sweeps over the crowd, stopping abruptly. He doesn't need to see the flawless face or the precise curve of her hat; he knows that silhouette. The moment his gaze locks onto Mary Poppins's severe, erect posture, a raw, visceral tightening occurs low in his gut, sudden and sharp as a physical blow. The colors of the chalk art—the brilliant reds, the shocking yellows—recede, and all the light in the park seems to focus on her. The public performance drops away, replaced by an intense, overwhelming rush of private feeling, a familiar heat that immediately reminds him of the dark, cramped spaces they once shared, the scent of lavender and soot mingling, and the sound of her breath catching.
“Well, not Royal Academy, I suppose. Still, they’re better than a finger in your eye, ain’t they? Chim chiminy, chim chiminy chim chim cheroo, I draws what I likes and I likes what I drew, No remuneration do I ask of you.”
He pauses, the rhythmic, working-class patter dissolving into something richer, deeper, and infinitely more personal. His hands, caked with chalk and earth, clench instinctively, recalling the silken texture of her skin against his palms. The sheer magnetic force of her presence compels him to change the tenor of the moment entirely. His gaze, usually warm and open, turns intensely possessive, stripping away the crowd and the children until it is only the two of them, two souls linked by the memory of a glorious, lawless abandon.
He switches gears to perform a love poem to her, delivered with an intensity that bypasses the ears and goes straight to the blood. His voice lowers, deepening to a timbre that Mary knows is reserved only for her, a sound that has whispered her name in rooms without windows.
“Instead of a penny, I’ll ask something new, A moment of time, just for me and for you.”
Her eyes, usually fixed on the horizon, drop to his. She sees the burning intensity in their depths and feels a sudden, dizzying wave of heat rise beneath the stiff lace collar of her blouse. She feels seen, wholly and utterly, and the sensation is both thrilling and deeply dangerous in this public square.
“For though I’m a sweep, and I’m covered in grime, When you look my way, darling, it stops all the time!”
The words are simple, yet they carry the weight of countless stolen hours, passionate nights in the most unlikely of settings, and the enduring understanding that they inhabit different spheres yet are fundamentally bound. His reference to the grime is an open challenge to her starched perfection, a reminder that she has, quite willingly, allowed that dirt onto her own immaculate person.
“A love for your smile is the highest of pay, And seeing your face brightens every single day. So please, Miss Poppins, me love, just stand still for a bit, I’ve drawn me a feeling that simply won’t quit.”
The final lines, delivered with a desperate, hungry look, are nothing less than a promise of physical devotion. The feeling "won't quit"—it’s a yearning that persists, an ache that only she can quell, a desire that demands satisfaction. He is practically vibrating with unspoken requests, his pupils dark and dilated against the smoky grey of his iris.
“Your beauty, me darlin’, the finest I see Chim chiminy, Mary, you’re perfect for me!”
Mary Poppins inclines her head slightly, a gesture that acknowledges the performance while maintaining the distance of their respective social roles. Her pulse, however, is hammering a reckless rhythm against the delicate bones of her wrist. The warmth in her cheeks is a betrayal, quickly controlled by a minuscule tightening of the jaw.
“It’s lovely to see you again as well, Bert. I expect you know Jane and Michael.” Her voice is as clear and cool as ice water, a deliberate effort to counteract the fire he has ignited with his gaze.
Bert pulls his focus back just enough to acknowledge the children, his breath easing out in a nearly imperceptible sigh that still holds the residual tension of his desire. He pushes himself up onto his feet, dusting his trousers with a casual flourish, his towering, rangy form looming over the elaborate drawing.
“Well, I’ve seen ‘em here and about. Chasin’ a kite last time, weren’t it?” His eyes, though addressing Jane, dart back to Mary, communicating a second layer of meaning: I see everything you do, and I remember every moment.
Jane steps forward, proud to be recognized. “Mary Poppins is taking us to the park.”
Bert folds his arms across his chest, his posture shifting into that familiar, charmingly conspiratorial stance that Mary knows precedes mischief. His lips curve into a slow, knowing smile. He holds Mary’s eyes again, a glint of shared memory in his own.
“To the park? Not if I know Mary Poppins. Other nannies take children to the park. When you’re with Mary Poppins, suddenly you’re in places you’ve never dreamed of. And quick as you can say ‘Bob’s your uncle,’ the most unusual things begin to happen.” He is speaking of magic, but his intense, prolonged gaze makes it clear that he is also speaking of her, of their shared capacity to step out of reality and into a sensual, secret world that no one else can touch.
Mary, smiling wryly, the smallest, most perfect curve of her lips a deliberate act of restraint, replies, “I’m sure I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
It’s a beautifully constructed lie, and the heat in her chest flares because she knows he knows she’s lying. She hasn't the faintest idea what he's talking about, and she cannot wait to find out.