A/N: This is a kinda songfic to the wonderful old Irish song She Moved Through the Fair, just because I'm Irish, not so old, and it is as of yet undecided how wonderful I am.

Dedicated to the three wonderful women who have beta'd all my different ramblings; you put up with my Ryros and introduced me to the intoxicating world of Romy. Here's a (kinda) Romy for you - WandaW, aiRo25writes, IcedBlaze

Shall we give them three cheers? I think we shall.

ps: if anyone can think of a better title for this, I shall reward them with a very large cookie. Or, if perhaps they like my work, a one-shot/songfic with a pairing of their choice.

Beta'd by WandaW (and titles suggested by IcedBlaze when this plonker couldn't get her brain to work)

One Shot

They were all together, laughing, drinking. Someone started singing, Remy maybe, drunk definitely, but it caught on. No one cared that Kitty sounded like a drowning cat on helium. In times like these, every moment meant something wonderful. They might never be like this, all together, laughing, drinking, ever again. It was a war. And in wars, people die.

But for tonight, maybe just tonight, they were all free men.

The dancing began as Beast played the spoons. Kitty did the funky chicken, Piotr a remarkably accurate depiction of Swan Lake, Storm and Logan out-vogued Madonna and Remy and Jubilee started up an energetic conga line with a much reluctant Bobby in tow. Rogue and John revolved slowly on the spot, out of the spotlight, in each other. Her head against his shoulder, his arms around her waist; his warm breath whispered on her throat, her hands linked behind his neck, the ring sparkling in the half-light. His face bore the scars of the X-Men's latest encounter with the Brotherhood. Rogue only took off her gloves for him; her arms were something to behold. It was a war. And in wars people get hurt.

But for tonight, maybe just tonight, they were all beautiful.

Beast finished with a flourish and there were shouts, requests, orders.

"Jubes and Kitty! You gotta do Girls Just Wanna Have Fun!"

"Yankee Doodle Bobby! Please!"

"Remy! I'm Too Sexy! With actions!"

"Something in French! Logan!

"And Remy! Duet! Duet!"

"Oi! Allerdyce! Waltzing Matilda, you wombat-licking bastard."

"Rogue!"

"Yeah! Rogue!"

"Ro-gue! Ro-gue!" A drumroll. Remy wolf-whistled in approval and Logan banged his beer bottle off the table. "Ro-gue! Ro-gue."

Rogue was about tell them all to, very politely, go procreate with their lonesomes, when John murmured, "Go on. I've never heard you sing."

"And that's how we're gonna keep it," Rogue hissed back.

"What if I died tomorrow without ever hearing your voice? How you would feel then?"

Rogue pretended this didn't hurt her. That it didn't mean anything. She pretended he wasn't the leader. She pretended he didn't have the most openly offensive powers. She pretended he wasn't always the first target.

"Glad, because if ya had, ya would've run fohr the hills."

"Please," he breathed. "For me."

"Oh, alright! But don' say Ah didn't warn ya."

He smirked and pushed her forwards. Cheers erupted around her as, dizzy on drink and drunk on love, Rogue opened her mouth,

My young love said to me, my mother won't mind,
And my father won't slight you for your lack of kind.
And he stepped away from me and this she did say,
It will not be long love 'til our wedding day.

.

xXxXxXxXxXx

.

The alarm went off when they were sleeping. John gently slipped from her warm embrace. He kissed her cheek. Her forehead. Her eyes. Her nose. Her lips. This might be goodbye. It was a war. And in wars people die.

Her eyes flickered open. She stirred, pushing herself up, rubbing sleep from her eyes and tangles through her hair.

"Johnny?"

"Go back to sleep," he said, pulling on his boots.

She lay back, watching him. He crossed to the door and pulled it open.

He stepped away from me and he moved through the fair,
And fondly I watched him move here and move there.

"Aren't ya gonna say goodbye?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't have to. I'll be back."

She sat up straight. "But what if y–– "

And he was by her side. "Shhhh …" John whispered, pressing his finger to her lips. "Shhhhhh … Don't talk like that, possum. Don't ever talk like that."

Her hands traced out his face, every scar, every kiss. Just in case. "I'm buying my dress today," she told him. He smiled and left. She blew him a kiss.

Then he went his way homeward with one star awake,
As the swan in the evening moves over the lake.

And that was their goodbye.

.

xXxXxXxXxXx

.

According to Kitty, a murder of magpies were perched on the shop windowsill.

"One is for sorrow," Kitty recited loudly as Rogue sulked in the changing room, struggling to zip up the first of many potential dresses. "Two is for joy. Three is for a girl, four for a boy. Five is for silver, six is for gold, seven is for a secret never to be told. Eight is for date, nine for a kiss … And ten for a bird never to miss."

Gloves on, Rogue paused to fix her hair. "Ready," she called. The shop assistant pulled back the curtain and she glided forward, a swan with taffeta wings.

"Well?" she asked eagerly, twirling in front of the mirror. The skirt ballooned. "What do ya think?"

Kitty pulled a face. "Too fairy-ish. You look like the freaking Good Witch of the North."

Rogue stopped spinning and the skirt deflated like some sorry souffle. One magpie flew away.

.

xXxXxXxXxXx

.

The X-Men were in position, supervising the handover of convicted Brotherhood terrorists to a secure detention facility. They headed up the chain of vehicles, and guarded the rear. Dawn had yet to break and the roads were empty. All around them was green and grey as they wound through the wilderness of Wyoming. Only the Government would have thought to build a mutant prison in Wyoming. High banks caught them on both sides, trees giving way to black tarmac. All was still.

Remy drove, Pyro rode shotgun and Bobby snored in the backseat.

" …so don't y' be worryin' 'bout y' stag night," Remy was saying with much relish. "Remy got it covered."

John wasn't sure how to react. He stared out the window at the passing green. Rolled down the window and exhaled into the solid morning. Bobby complained at his smoking, but Bobby was asleep.

"So. Dis fille y' got Johnny. She really de one?"

John nodded once. "Yes."

"Pity," Remy grinned. "She one belle femme … Y' treat her good, Johnny-boy, an' she'll always make y' smile."

John smiled.

"See! Remy told y' so."

They rounded a sharp bend. A body lay in the road before them, a jumbled bag of bones poking up through the flesh. A single magpie sat pecking. Peck-peck-peck.

"Merde!" Remy swore, slamming on the brake. The SUV screeched to a halt inches from the corpse. Bobby awoke with a grunt.

"Wassup?"

"Body in the road," John told him, pointing.

Bobby whistled. "Shit."

"Dat's what Remy said."

John opened the door and stepped out into the road. Took one last drag and crushed the red butt under his boot. "Radio the convoy."

"Where're you going?" Bobby asked, now wide-awake.

"There's a body in the middle of the road Drake, in case you hadn't noticed. Where'd you think I'm going? 7-11?"

Bobby scrambled from the car. "Hang on a sec!"

"Mon Dieu! Remy's comin' too! Attends!" Remy landed catlike beside them, dusting down his trench coat

"This isn't a bloody fashion parade," John snapped impatiently. He edged towards the body, thumb itching his wrist flint. Behind them, the convoy hummed, a postman eager to get home before the rain, soldiers with cocked rifles waiting.

Remy shrugged. "If dis Cajun's gonna die, he's gonna look damn good doin' it."

"No one's going to die," Bobby vowed quietly.

The people were saying no two were e'er wed,
But one has a sorrow that never was said.

Soldiers joined them at the body, milling around, an army of ants. Bobby barked out orders, while John and Remy stood back. Observing. Remy sniffed the air. "Can y' feel dat, mon ami?" he whispered, his body coiled, waiting for action. "De air is still-still. Somet'ing's gon' happen now– "

The body lying the middle of the road leapt up and drove a jagged bone through the eye socket of the nearest solider.

Gunshots

Fire

Pink explosions

Screaming and blood and screaming and John and Remy threw themselves behind a smouldering car. It was an ambush. High up the wooded banks the Brotherhood had been waiting to rescue their imprisoned brothers.

"Get to the convoy!" John commanded, steel, shoving Remy in one direction and sprinting off in the other. Fire licked the forest and through the smoke ran flaming shapes, shrieking like banshees in the dawn.

"Where y' goin'?" Remy yelled.

"Bobby!"

"Mais–– "

"Convoy, Cajun!"

Remy tore off down the line of trucks, charged cards flying everywhere – but no one followed him. No one was interested in the prisoners. Their intended target was …

As if underwater, Remy whipped around. His trench coat flapped at his ankles. Pink love hearts tumbled through the air. King, three, eight, Knave, nine, five, Ace. The army fired blindly into the trees, in slow motion, falling down like toy soldiers, tripping over each in their eagerness to die. Bobby was wrestling with the bone mutant. Her makeshift dagger inched towards his throat as ice cut uselessly into her dead flesh. There's only one thing that can hurt the dead.

Fire.

John incinerated the bone mutant, flung his hand out to help Bobby up, already half-turned to run back to Remy, and slumped backwards into Bobby's arms. Just a little sigh. Just a little oh of surprise.

And I smiled as he passed with his goods and her gear,
And that was the last that I saw of my dear.

"You bastards!"

He could hear Bobby raving at the trees but the words meant nothing to him.

"You chickenshit BASTARDS!"

All around the fires were dying. In tribute. The sky opened and rain poured down. It stung Remy's skin, washing the blood away.

"I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOU ALL FOR THIS!"

The awful thing was he still looked like John. Asleep, maybe. Blood fizzled up in the tiny hole. How cowardly to kill him with one bullet.

"YOU'RE DEAD, YOU HEAR ME? YOU'RE ALL FUCKING DEAD!"

Remy laid a bleeding hand on Bobby's shoulder. "It's a war, mon ami," he said quietly. "An' in wars, people die."

.

xXxXxXxXxXx

.

Almost dreamlike Rogue slid what felt like the millionth pair of gloves up her arms. She had tried on the whole shop, but nothing had appeased Kitty.

"Too poufy. You look like a cupcake."

"Too white? Who are you? The Ice Queen?"

An intricately beaded number was too complicated; a silk shift dress was too simple; the muslin was too light, the velvet too heavy; the rhinestones made the dress look cheap; it was too long, too short. She thought of John. She could have worn an old sackcloth and he would have called her beautiful.

"God, no. You look like a prostitute! You do have to do this in front of a priest, you know."

"How about now?" Rogue asked brightly. Despite Kitty's constant critiquing, her mood refused to sour. She was shopping for her wedding dress. And John would come home tonight and, maybe, she would show him. Screw bad luck. They made their own luck

"Now you look like my grandmother. Jeez, that must be centuries old."

"O' course it's old. It's vintage," Rogue protested. She rather liked the old-fashioned lace. Simple but elegant, like her. She fingered the high collar.

"It's vile, that what it is; now stop complaining and take it off like a good girl," Kitty ordered. "You're only going to get married once so you might as well do it right."

"Try this one, mo stor." The shop assistant said; she was a plump Irish woman well into her sixties, but with sparkle in her eyes. "Careful now." Rogue took the garment, holding it as though it was made of glass, and retreated to the changing room. Music filed the small shop as the attendant switched on the stereo.

"Hey! Rogue!" Kitty called out. "It's your song. The one you sa–– Woooooowww…"

"Oh, isn't she beautiful!" clucked the attendant, fixing a veil over Rogue's head. "Never I saw such a beauty as you, mo stor!"

Rogue gazed at her reflection through a mist. It could have been the veil; it could have been tears. She was shopping for her wedding dress. She had found her wedding dress.

"Shoes!" Kitty squealed, hopping up and down on the spot. "Shoes! And jewellery. You gotta have jewellery. Pearls? – Or diamonds? Or what about emeralds? To match you eyes …"

Rogue just smiled as they adorned her throat and wrists with jewels, a statue of an angel carved from the softest white marble. Outside the window, only one magpie was left. Just a single solitary magpie. And the CD kept playing. The song was nearly over. She closed her eyes and saw John, strapping on his wrist flints over broken fingers, backing out of their room. Ready for war. It was a war. And in a war, people got hurt.

I dreamt it last night that my young love came in,
So softly he entered his feet made no din.

.

xXxXxXxXxXx

.

Laden down with shopping bags, Rogue started up the stairs to her and John's room. Halfway she saw Remy. His eyes were red. Well, redder than usual.

In his hands he held a bloody playing card, edges eaten away by fire, washed by the rain. His fingers let it fall and it wafted down to land at Rogue's feet.

The Queen of Hearts.

Remy's eyes were red because he had been crying.

Rogue's purchases tumbled to the floor. A box split open and her veil trailed down the stairs. An old blanket forgotten by a child.

She shook her head.

"No.

No.

No.

No!"

Remy wrapped her in an embrace.

But his arms were cold.

"NO!" she screamed, beating his chest with her fists. Kicking, screaming, punching every inch she could reach. He absorbed it all and she only hit harder. "NO!"

Raging, she tore from him. She grabbed the banister, hooking on leg over it. He caught her, pulled her back. Together, sprawled on the stairs.

Her whole body convulsed with rawness. Loss ravaged her flesh, emptiness flowed in her veins, pain seeped cold into her heart. Love cried. Just cried. Consumed by love, Rogue sobbed dry on the stairs.

Remy's cayenne tears dribbled into her hair.

"I know, chere. I know."

He came close beside me and this he did say,
It will not be long love 'til our wedding day.

Well? What do you think? Anything you recognise is obviously not mine. I would love some feedback. Even if it's just to tell me I have a bizarre and unhealthy obsession with Pyro's suffering. LOL

If anyone hasn't heard the song, I suggest you check it out. Sineád O'Connor's version is particularly beautiful.

Cheers, Plonksie