Disclaimer: I do not own Kim Possible, Ron Stoppable, Disney, quaint old Cornish towns, 19th century poems or the songs based off them.

Kim was in hospital. She had been for some time. A shattered leg. They had caught the Global Justice agent responsible. Twenty years for attempted murder, another ten for conspiracy. Fifteen years for the ten co-conspirators. The case revealed a hatred within the agency of her success, her celebrity, her team. Director Director was forced to resign.

Outside the hospital, a crowd of nearly a quarter million had held vigil. Once the seriousness had become apparent, a month-long halt by villains and (most) criminals had been called. For, in the words of ex-villain Drakken, the good guys had no business turning traitor. That was the sole preserve of villains and they guarded it jealously. This was not how it was done. Besides, Kim Possible had offered the only real challenge. They hoped she would recover. The surgeons were amazed she hadn't, ascribing her emotional state as a factor.

A month later, Kim and Ron had retired to Cornwall in Britain, donations and Ron's royalties covering the cost. They'd called it rehabilitation but only the public believed it. Her appearance was sufficiently changed by grief, pain and crutches that nobody recognized her. She changed her name and hid, bitter and ripped apart inside. Ron had heard there was a festival in the village they were in and he hoped it would break the black mood. Besides, festivals meant food.

"Yum, food!" said Rufus.

As I walked home on a Summer night
When stars in Heav'n were shining bright
Far away from the footlight's glare
Into the sweet and scented air
Of a quaint old Cornish town

Borne from afar on the gentle breeze
Joining the murmur of the summer seas
Distant tones of an old world dance
Played by the village band perchance
On the calm air came floating down

Ron was walking home. It was late in the evening and the sky was clear. Sounds were carried great distances in the still air, so at first he paid no attention to the faintest murmuring. He had been exploring the local cuisine that day. The food was interesting, but Cornish pasties needed more cheese. He was going to invent a new type.

I thought I could hear the curious tone
Of the cornet, clarinet and big trombone
Fiddle, 'cello, big bass drum
Bassoon, flute and euphonium
Far away, as in a trance
I heard the sound of the Floral Dance

He heard the parade before he saw it. He was at the bottom of a hill and the sound of brass instruments filled the air.

And soon I heard such a bustling and prancing
And then I saw the whole village was dancing
In and out of the houses they came
Old folk, young folk, all the same
In that quaint old Cornish town

Every boy took a girl 'round the waist
And hurried her off in tremendous haste
Whether they knew one another I care not
Whether they cared at all, I know not
But they kissed as they danced along

The parade moved slowly past. As it did so, Ron noticed more and more people joining in wherever they could. It was very unlike anything he had experienced. Musicians at the front, dancers at the back, with revellers dancing with whoever was near.

No floats, no costumes, no groups vying for prestige. Nobody cared who was dancing with whom, it wasn't a status thing or a message thing, it was a having fun thing. And they were having a lot of fun.

I felt so lonely standing there
And I could only stand and stare
For I had no girl with me
Lonely I should have to be
In that quaint old Cornish town.

His own pains and anxieties were being washed away by the clean, honest, open revelry. This wasn't the dancing common in America, he didn't know the rules, but he didn't care. None of that mattered. The music and the dance healed. He only wish Kim was here beside him, maybe have the pain healed for her, too.

When suddenly hast'ning down the lane
A figure I knew I thought quite lame
With outstretched hands she came along
And carried me into that merry throng
And fiddle and all went dancing down.

He glanced up the hill.

No... Was that even possible? Even for a Possible?

We danced to the band with the curious tone
Of the cornet, clarinet and big trombone
Fiddle, 'cello, big bass drum
Bassoon, flute and euphonium
Each one making the most of his chance
Altogether in the Floral Dance.

Retirement would have to be postponed, maybe for another fifty years...