Isn't It Romantic?

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Rating: K

Summary: "Isn't it romantic? Music in the night: a dream that can be heard. Isn't it romantic? Moving shadows write the oldest magic words." An interlude between the Wolf and the object of his affections. There should really be a fluff option….

Notes: There is no live Christmas tree market in Japan (they only sell the fake kind), and the custom of putting a Christmas tree in private homes is a fairly recent one; in the past, Christmas trees were put up in businesses, not homes.

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Saitou was tired.

The day had been long and trying on his nerves, and he decided that as nice as overtime was when he got his paycheck, it wasn't something he wanted to make a habit of.

He'd come through the door, dropped his coat and bag in the entry, taken off his shoes, locked the door, then dragged his sorry hide to the couch and slumped down, to stare in vacant weariness at the tree Eiji and Tokio had decorated two days ago. His jobs had included setting the thing up in the stand (which was harder than it sounded) and stringing the lights. Mother and son had taken care of the rest, and he'd been content to watch. When it came time to top the tree, Eiji had insisted on his help, so he'd dutifully hefted the boy up onto his shoulders and held him steady while the seven-year-old leaned over and put the star up just so, because this was apparently the most important part.

Saitou didn't really see the point of a Christmas tree—it sounded like the behavior of a drunk, frankly, cutting down a tree and bringing it into the house to decorate it, and he figured it made sense that it was an English custom, those drunkards—but he supposed it looked pretty. There was something really nice about the muted glow the tree lights bathed the living room in.

"Hey," came the whispered greeting from the doorway, and he looked over to find Tokio watching him with a smile.

"Hey," he replied quietly, also smiling a little.

"Hungry?" she asked, padding into the room.

"Tired," he said as she sank down next to him.

She kissed his cheek, then laid her head against his shoulder; he slipped his arm around her, and they sat there silently for a long time, watching the tree. It took a few moments, but he eventually made out odd sounds, and after pondering and listening carefully, he realized she was playing one of his jazz CDs. He smirked when he figured it out—when they'd first met, she hadn't liked the music, but seven years of exposure had worn her down, apparently. He decided to keep quiet about it, though: this was progress, more than he'd ever thought he would see, and saying anything might cancel it out.

"So exactly what did you make for dinner?" he asked at long last, and she chuckled.

"Soba," she said, and he grinned.

"How ever did you know, my dear?" he asked, rubbing a hand up and down her arm.

"You're predictable, darling," she drawled.

He sent her an affronted look that had her laughing quietly and leaning up to kiss him.

"It's a good thing," she assured. "You're like an old, well-worn shirt."

"Oh yeah, that's what I want to hear—'Hey babe, you're like a shirt.' Nice one," he muttered.

"You know what I mean, you big baby," she said, bumping his shoulder with her own.

And he did, honestly—it was the same with her, though he knew she'd take it a lot worse than he had.

Women never entirely understood the full extent of affection behind being compared to a guy's favorite article of clothing, though Tokio had a better grasp than most.

"Come on," she said, slipping her hand into his and tugging lightly. "I've got it ready for you in the kitchen."

He sighed, but allowed her to tug him off the couch. And as he was rising, he made another realization: she hadn't been listening to the CD, she'd been listening to a particular song. He grinned when he made out which song.

"What's so funny?" she asked, cocking her head and eyeing him curiously.

"'Isn't It Romantic'?" he asked, and she looked torn between embarrassment at having been caught and shock that he'd heard it.

"How do you do that?" she asked finally, settling on the latter.

"Just got good ears, is all," he replied with a shrug, tugging her closer. "Why that one?"

She sent him a flat look, and his grin widened.

"Why that one?" he repeated.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I just like it."

"You have good taste," he remarked, then leaned over to say, grinning, into her ear, "Which is why you're with me, of course."

"Oh be quiet," she muttered, taking a step back.

He tugged her back to him and pressed the knuckles of the hand he held to his lips.

"Wanna dance?" he asked, and she stared at him in shock.

"You never dance," she said after a moment. "Ever."

"Right music's gotta be on," he said, shaking his head. "There's a mood needs to be set."

"You were born in the wrong era," she said with a sigh, but she was smiling a little.

"Possibly," he agreed. "Do you?"

"Oh I wouldn't dream of missing out on this once in a lifetime spectacle," she said.

"I'll have you know I put Fred Astaire to shame," he said, adjusting his grip on her hand and settling his other hand at her waist.

"Sure, I bet they call you 'Bojangles'," she murmured, rolling her eyes, smile still on her face.

"Feh, no respect," he said as they began to lazily waltz around the room.

There was a part of him that felt incredibly moronic doing this. But there was another part of him, the part of him that lived to make Tokio happy, that told the other part to stuff it. Because she had her head on his shoulder and her eyes were closed and she was smiling, and that more than made up for feeling a little foolish.

"What about your soba?" she asked quietly.

"It'll still be there," he replied.

"It'll be cold."

"Then I'll heat it up."

"Hm."

He grinned faintly and dropped a kiss to her temple, and then it was just them and the Christmas tree casting a warm glow over them, horns softly accompanying Tony Bennett's voice as it wound around them.

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Isn't it romance?