Oh hello. It's been rather a long while since I've written a oneshot for the hell of it, hasn't it? Well, I do hope I don't disappoint.

I'll warn you, this is fairly dark. Darker than I usually write. It's inspired by one of my current obsessions, the song "Twenty-two" by Stereo Goes Stellar. Particularly this verse:

Sing Hallelujah, I'm still alive,
Only twenty-two, but I'm ready to die
And if the worst comes true, don't let my tombstone lie,
Say he had a good run.

Anyway, I hope you like it, despite the darkness. I just wanted to explore a different sort of origin story for Mary and Bert's friendship.

The chill in the air is becoming unbearable. Bert wraps his scarf a little tighter around his neck and curses the fact that his gloves have holes in nearly all the fingers. He really should invest in a new pair, but money has been tight lately and anything he makes goes into keeping him fed.

As he makes his way over the rooftop, his arms held wide for balance, he looks up at the sky. The one good thing about the cold wind is the clarity it brings to the sky. The stars have never been brighter. But as his gaze returns to more earthly sights, he frowns. There is a silhouette of a woman sitting where there most certainly shouldn't be a woman sitting. She's sitting far too close to the edge for his comfort; if she were to straighten her legs, they would dangle off the edge. She stares out over London and he's captivated by her upturned nose and perfect posture.

Carefully he moves so that he can get a better look, but trying not to be too obvious about it.

"You can come closer, you know," she suddenly speaks, not looking over at him. "No use lurking in the shadows, I know you're there."

He takes off his cap sheepishly. "Sorry, miss. Just not often y' see… people such as yourself up 'ere on the rooftops."

Now that he's closer, he can see her better. She is definitely a young woman, probably twenty-one or twenty-two. Her hair is dark, nearly as dark as the night itself but far warmer, and her eyes a bright blue contrast to the darkness of her hair. Her skin is near luminescent in the moonlight and she wears a midnight blue dress with black lace that contrasts it starkly. She's beautiful, near perfect, like one of the porcelain dolls his sister used to covet in shop windows, but the air surrounding her is heavy and sad.

"No, I suppose not."

"If it's not too personal, miss, can I ask if what you're doin' up 'ere on such a cold night? An' without a coat too!"

"Poppins," she announces suddenly.

"Uh, what?"

"Poppins. My last name. I'm Mary Poppins."

He gives a long, low whistle. Now he knows who he's addressing—James Poppins is one of the wealthiest men in London and his only daughter is the toast of society. Definitely not the sort of person to be sitting on a rooftop at ten o'clock at night.

"Yes, that's usually the response I get," she comments gloomily. "I shouldn't have said anything. I suppose you'll treat me differently now."

"N-no, Miss Poppins, I'm glad you did! Honest. Y' just surprised me is all. Not every day y' meet a person such as yourself! Give me a moment and I'll start treatin' ya like I would any street rat."

A small bubble of laughter escapes her lips and she looks completely shocked by the sound.

"Miss Poppins, you never did tell me what you're doin' up here."

"What? Can't a woman climb out her bedroom window and scale her roof to sit?"

"I s'pose a woman can, but I don't get why a woman'd want to."

"Did you know," she asks, staring out at the cityscape, "that if the human neck breaks in precisely the right spot, you'll die? That's the logic behind the hangman's noose. It's quick and supposedly rather painless, provided it's done right, of course. If the neck doesn't break, the victim dies from a lack of oxygen."

"Um… well, no, I suppose I didn't." He frowns; the way she had shared that macabre tidbit had sounded far too interested to be a random fact. "You're not thinking of…" He can't bring himself to finish the sentence and just flicks his eyes over to the edge of the roof.

She denies it. "Oh no, I'm rather unable to do so."

A wave of release crashes over him. "Good. That's good. I would 'ate t' think that someone so accomplished would be thinking of doin' somethin' like that."

Her laugh isn't really a laugh at all; it sounds distant and remorseful. Almost bitter. "Oh, you misunderstand me. I physically can't. I wouldn't hit the ground. Instincts, you know."

"I… What?" he asks.

"If I tell you a secret, do you promise not to tell?"

"Depends on what the secret is. Are y' going t' 'urt yourself?"

"No."

"Then I promise."

She stands and before he can do anything, steps of the roof. He makes a grab for her but misses and he feels his stomach drop as she plummets out of view. "Mary!" he cries out. Even though he's known her for mere minutes, he feels as though he's just lost something incredible.

"Yes?"

He jumps and glances around wildly, looking for her. But how could she be anywhere? He's just watched her jump off a roof!

"Down here, Bert."

Warily, he approaches the edge and looks over it. She hovers there, standing on absolutely nothing. "'ow… 'ow are you doing that? An' 'ow did you know my name?"

She floats up and steps lightly back down on the roof. "Just something I've always been able to do. The names and the floating."

"Well, y' shouldn't do it! Y'nearly scared me t' death! Y' can't just go jumpin' off roofs like that!"

"If you'll just stop looking at me as if I'm completely mad…"

"Y' just jumped off a roof! Of course I'm looking at you like you're mad! You're completely barmy! What if somethin' 'ad 'appened? What if you'd 'ave been 'urt? What if you died?"

"Well, then my situation would have greatly improved."

Bert stops. This woman in front of him, this beautiful, vibrant, young woman with everything in the world, welcomes pain, welcomes death. It frightens him to no end; it shouldn't affect him this badly but he feels like he has to protect her.

She laughs bitterly. "Have I shocked you? Oh, I'm afraid I have. The great James Poppins daughter can't seem to find a reason to live! How selfish I must look to you, how petty and sad. I have every advantage, I wear the finest clothes and go to the best parties. And yet I'm miserable. Miserable enough to welcome death. How awful this must appear to you!"

He has to admit that under his concern, there is a bit of annoyance at her. She has never wanted for anything. Her gloves have never been used enough to develop holes. She's never gone hungry or been cold. And yet she claims misery. He shrugs.

She slumps and studies London again. "I'm to be married next week, you know."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Everything is prepared. All that's left to do is show up at the church and say yes."

"An' you're up 'ere, jumping off roofs?"

"Call me progressive, but I don't believe a marriage should be a business transaction. A woman shouldn't be married off to the highest bidder."

Again, Bert's opinion of the woman shifts. He hadn't really thought about it. When his younger sister had been married, she'd been so madly in love she couldn't see straight. His parents never would have let her settle for anything less. He'd never thought about marriage as anything but a union between two lovers.

"So… y'don't love him?"

"No, I don't."

"Why'd you agree t' do it then? Surely they can't force ya!"

The corner of her mouth quirks up wryly. "It was expected of me. And I've always done what is expected of me."

"So don't marry 'im! Miss Poppins, if y' don't want t' do something, don't subject yourself t' th' misery!"

"I'd have nowhere to go. My family expects me to do this. To settle down and be a wife. They're frightened by my abilities, frightened of what might happen if I don't make a match soon. My... oddities are becoming stronger; if I don't marry now, they might end up with a spinster daughter. But I'm certain I could do so much more, if only they'd let me."

Bert doesn't even think about the offer that comes out of his mouth. "Who says you need their permission? If they don't like it, y' can come stay with me. I don't 'ave a lot of room, but y' wouldn't be forced t' do anythin' ya don't want t' do, Miss Poppins."

"That's very kind of you." She shivers and looks up at the moon. "I should be getting back inside. My maid will begin to wonder where I got off to."

"I meant that, Miss Poppins. Just so y' know. Ask any sweep in town, they'll know 'oo I am an' where t' send ya. If ya tell 'em you're a friend of mine, they'll take right good care of ya."

"Thank you, Mister…"

"What, you can't guess?"

"I can only do first names," she admits.

"Alfred, Miss Poppins. I'm Herbert Alfred. But you can call me Bert."

"Well, then you may as well call me Mary. Thank you for the company, Bert. And the counsel. I shall keep it in mind."

He takes her hand in hers and kisses it. "Pleasure's all mine, Mary Poppins. You're destined for great things. I can already tell."

She smiles and climbs back through the open window. He sets off across the roofs, whistling.

Two days later, there's a knock on the door to his flat and he answers.

And there is Mary Poppins, perfect posture and all, dressed in a bright blue coat and black skirt, a black hat with daisies and cherries on her head, and holding an old-fashioned carpetbag in her hand.

"Hello, Bert," she greets him, a nervous smile on her face.

He mutely steps aside to let her in and can't help but feel as if this is the start of something monumental.