I had the absolutely pleasure of going to see closing night of Mary Poppins in San Francisco and Maddy Trumble's portrayal of Mary, especially Mary's interaction with the Bird Woman, sparked some new ideas about the characters. That's what this is based on.

As always, I own nothing!

"Will I see you tomorrow?" Bert asks, his hat in his hands as he watches Mary prepare to descend the chimney and get her latest charges into bed. "It's your Day, isn't it?"

Mary nods, but offers up an apologetic smile. "It is, but I'm afraid I have another engagement tomorrow. Perhaps another time?"

Inwardly she cringes when she sees the grin on his face flicker before he can catch it. She knows he's been looking forward to her day off, to finally spending some time alone together as friends should. "I am sorry, Bert."

"No matter!" he replies, his smile becoming brighter than ever. He holds out his hand and she takes it so he can help her ascend the stack.

"Good night, Bert," she says quietly, squeezing his hand before letting go. "Take care."

"Night, Mary. Sweet dreams."

She offers up a beatific smile just before she descends into the nursery. "Always."

0ooo0

The next morning, Mary gets ready slowly, taking the time to make sure she looks even better than practically perfect, that her hat sits properly atop her head and her hair stays in its pins. It isn't hard for her to extricate herself from the children and though their mother tries to stop her to see if she might change her plans, a simple, firm reminder that it is her Day Out and a condition of her employment in the house settles the matter quickly. With a nod, she takes her umbrella from the stand and tucks it under her arm as she leaves.

And so across London Mary Poppins goes. She walks slower than she would with her charges, but quicker than she might on an outing with Bert. She passes the bank where George Banks still works, to the best of her knowledge, and her lips curve upwards as she thinks of the time she spent in his home. She really must have Bert check in on them again for her.

Eventually she comes to St. Paul's Cathedral. As always, the Bird Woman is there, calling to those who pass by, selling her wares. Very few people stop—most refuse to even look. Mary purses her lips and reaches into her handbag to pull out a tuppence. As she approaches, the woman looks up. "Feed the birds? Only tuppence a bag."

Mary takes her hand and presses the tuppence into it, covering the woman's hand with her own for a moment. It's small and so frail compared to hers. "One, please," she says. The woman hands her the bag of feed and returns to trying to catch the eye of the passersby. Mary scatters the feed, listening to the chatter of the birds who come to eat.

"She's not doing well, Mary Poppins," a large pigeon says. "She's going farther into herself and it's getting harder to pull her out!"

"I know that," Mary snaps. Then her shoulders drop and she takes a breath. "My apologies. I'm just unsure of what you'd like me to do about it."

"Well, she shouldn't be out here every day! She'll catch her death!"

"I can assure you I'm not unaware of that. I'm doing my best but you must give me time."

"It's not us you have to worry about!"

Mary turns back to the woman. She's now seated on the steps of the cathedral. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, Mary Poppins."

"Don't mention it."

With a nod towards the bird, she moves to the woman. The Bird Woman looks up and this time offers up a smile. "Gertie? How are you, love?"

"Aunt Gertie died several years ago, I'm afraid. It's just me. Mary."

"Gertie," the woman says, patting the stone next to her. "Come sit by me and chat a spell."

Mary presses a kiss to the woman's forehead and does as she's been asked. "How are you doing, Mum?"

The woman's gaze returns to her beloved birds. "It's getting 'arder to feed 'em, you know? So much less kindness in the world these days. Nothing like when we were girls, Gertie."

"It's a shame, isn't it?" Mary asks, assuming the role of her aunt as she often does in this situation. As the bird said earlier, it has been getting worse lately, losing touch with reality just a little bit at a time. It's now a fifty-fifty chance that the woman will remember that she has a daughter, let alone that Mary is her.

Her spiral started years ago, only a year or so after Mary began nannying. Mary is convinced it's tied to the fact that her father died that year. With every year, she could feel her mother slipping just a bit farther away from her. The magic that Mary has inherited from her has slowly started to eat away at her mind. The trouble began with her husband's death, when in her grief she had completely lost control of her magic for a moment. If Mary hadn't been there, she might have leveled London with the power of her sorrow. Together they'd managed to rein it back in, but she's not been quite right ever since.

And it terrifies Mary. The stunning, vibrant woman her mother once was has disappeared. Gone is her teacher and guide, though she remains in the world and still has every ounce of stubbornness she always has. Mary has tried several times to make her mother move in with Uncle Albert or to allow her to hire on help for her, but she refuses. Mary pays for a small flat nearby for the woman, since their family home was sold long ago, though she can't guarantee the woman uses it.

"Oh, Gertie. It's just not the same with James gone on business. 'e'll 'ave to come 'ome soon, don't you think?"

Her mother's question shakes Mary out of her reverie. "I'm sure he misses you very much," Mary says, trying not to lie or shatter her mother's hope. Sometimes hope is all that's left and to crush that, even for the sake of truth, is cruel. "Why don't we get a nice, warm cuppa? My treat."

She leads the woman to a small café nearby. "We don't serve the likes of her here," the owner says haughtily, sneering at her mother's rags.

Mary sniffs and draws herself up. "Fine, we'll take our business elsewhere." She casts a disdainful look over the man that puts him in his place. "Though, if I were a shopkeeper I should straighten my tie and welcome any business I might get. Good day."

The next shop is much more welcoming and Mary helps her mother to a seat before taking her own and ordering for the two of them.

Her mother's eyes unfocus for a moment and she stares off into space. But then she comes back to life, her eyes much more focused than they were earlier. "Mary?" she says, her voice wavering in uncertainty.

"Hello, Mum," Mary replies as she tries to keep her excitement in check. She knows this can only be a temporary reprieve, but in her heart she can't help but hope that maybe this time she's back for good.

"What's going on? Where are we?"

"You just got a bit confused for a moment. We're having tea. Now drink up before it gets cold."

"You haven't been by in a long while. At least two months. Don't you forget who raised you, my dear!"

Mary ducks her head repentantly as she sips her tea, not mentioning that she's visited at least three times in the past two months, though there had only been a small flicker of recognition in her mother's eyes that had quickly extinguished before any sort of connection could be made. "I'll keep that in mind, Mum."

"Oh, my girl, it's just so lovely to see you!" She reaches out and touches Mary's cheek. "You've gotten so beautiful."

"Yes, I know. Thank you."

"And you're still nannying?"

"Yes."

"And how is that sweep you're always on about? And why haven't I met him yet?"

"Bert is fine. He's quite busy and doesn't have much time to be gallivanting about the city," Mary lies. The truth is so much more complicated—it isn't that she's ashamed of her mother, exactly, just that she doesn't know how Bert will react. Especially if they visit on one of her mother's bad days, where she can say little more than the price of the feed for her beloved birds. She knows he'd be supportive but she doesn't want to see any sort of pity on his face. Mary Poppins is not a person to be pitied.

"And are you seeing him?"

Mary's eyes spring open. "Of course not!"

"You seem upset by the prospect."

"Bert is a dear friend, absolutely nothing more."

"Wouldn't seem that way to me. Not with the way you talk about him, Mary."

"Well, things aren't always what they seem," Mary says with a sniff. She takes a long sip of her tea to signal the matter is closed.

"I used to be that adamant about your father," her mother says quietly. "Seems we're similar in more ways than one."

"I am not you," Mary snaps, suddenly angry. "I'll never be you."

And she never will. She's seen what sentiment has done to her mother; she'll never allow herself to travel down that same road to madness. Mary Poppins will remain in control of herself until the day she dies.

Her mother blinks in surprise, but doesn't flinch. "No, no I suppose you're not."

Mary nods stiffly, unsure of how to continue but not wanting to leave.

"Living in fear isn't living, Mary," her mother whispers. "I hope if I taught you anything, it's that."

Mary can't bring herself to meet her mother's eyes. If she's perfectly honest with herself, deep down in a place she doesn't often deal with, she's terrified. Terrified of losing control, of losing herself. Terrified of Bert and how she might feel about him. Terrified of what the implications of that might mean. Terrified of losing him.

"The birds! The birds need feeding!"

At the non-sequitur, Mary looks up. Her mother's eyes have gone misty again; she's gone just as quickly as she arrived. With a sigh, Mary places more than enough money for the bill on the table and stands. "Come along then."

She takes her mother's hand and guides her out of the restaurant, leading her much as she leads her younger charges. At least she can rest easier knowing a warm cup of tea is in her mother's stomach. Mary accompanies her mother back to the flat, seeing that she gets inside. Her mother rushes to the window to watch the birds outside. Mary gets ready to leave.

"Gertie!"

"Yes, dear?" Mary asks.

"If James is home will you send him here?"

"I will."

Her mother has always loved the birds that gather on the steps of the cathedral; she'd often take Mary there to feed the birds when she was just a toddler.

"I have to ask him how he feels about the name Mary! We're trying to have a baby, you know. He wants a girl."

Mary smiles sadly and presses a kiss to her mother's cheek. She has to leave now if she's to make it back to her employer's house. "I'm sure she'll be perfect."

Her mother has already drifted back into her daze, happily watching the birds that fly by the window. After one last check, Mary closes the door and locks it behind her.

I haven't quite decided if this is finished or not so I'd absolutely love to hear your thoughts on it!