Disclaimer: I do not own nor do I claim to own any characters or concepts related to The Princess and the Frog. This is a nonprofit work of fanfiction.

I know I say this a lot, but I mean it every time, more than I can say: thank you, thank you, thank you. I am consistently blown away by the response to these stories, which is so much more than I could have ever asked for and so much more than I would have dared to ask for. Thank you. Thank you. I'm so, so glad you're enjoying these stories and as ever, I hope that you will continue to enjoy them.

This story is set post-film.

Last Dance

Tiana wandered in from the study, the day's ledger checked and checked again, to find Naveen drying his hands by the sink. She looked over the dishes racked to dry, stacked in something resembling order.

"Now isn't that something?" she said.

"I'm not finished yet," he said, folding the towel into neat thirds. He slapped it over the sink's lip. "There are a few left, but--" He turned his hands over, apologetic. "My fingers are wrinkling."

She covered his palm. "I'm sure they'll iron out just fine," she said.

In the room over the Radiola 80 ran on, broadcasting a recording from New York City: a big brass band playing in a hall with echoes, and a woman with a voice like a horn belting fast and wild. Naveen turned to Tiana, his hips swinging.

"Dance with me," he said.

"Mmmm-no, I don't think so," Tiana said. She held her hands up between them, warding him off. "I've been on my feet all day. The last thing I want is to stay on them."

He caught her hands and held them to his chest; when he swayed so, too, did she.

"Oh, you must dance with me. Doesn't this music make you want to kick up your heels?"

"I'm not kicking anything this late," she told him.

He scuffed his feet across the floor, socks sliding easily; his hips rolled low and his shoulders followed. He drew near. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone.

"One dance," he said. "Half a dance. We could sway, perhaps, in place?"

"I like that last one," she said.

As her hands were already halfway there, she went ahead and slipped her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his chest. His shirt wrinkled. There was a wet spot where he'd splashed water on himself at the sink, but she didn't mind; under his shirt, he was warm and he was solid. He fitted his arm around her waist.

Out of New York City the woman with the voice like a horn sang low and sweet, each word lingering in her throat, the band behind her now muted. A trumpet played a soft and mournful counterpoint, the notes falling like drops of water.

Naveen rested his cheek upon her head.

She drifted with him through that song and another after that, revolving in slow fractions every fourth step or so. The floor was cold, her feet bare, and she swayed on her toes, to spare her heels. He rubbed her back, one long stroke of his palm up, a second down. His breath ghosted through her hair.

The broadcast ended; the radio went silent. Tiana held on to Naveen for another long minute, his hips hanging loose against hers, his hand on her back now still. The skin which showed where his shirt lay unbuttoned was smooth; it smelled of water and soap, and a faint spice. Her legs ached.

Tiana turned, brushing a kiss over that dip in his collarbone, exposed. She fell back on her heels.

"That's enough dancing for one evening," she said.

Naveen sighed into her hair and held her close a moment longer, his fingers spreading wide over her lower back. He withdrew.

"How late is it?"

"Very," said Tiana. She curled her toes against the chill of the kitchen floor. "I'm going to turn in. Long day, and another one shaping up for tomorrow."

"Yes, work," said Naveen. He looked to the sink, where a few dishes waited, half-washed. "Sometimes I miss just being royal. Having everything done for me."

"But think of all the fun you'd miss," she said. She tipped his chin up, let her fingers fall down his throat. "Playing music every night. Making your own name."

"Washing dishes."

"And hey," she said, "you can just about make a passable jambalaya. If you don't mind picking out the burnt parts."

"Yes, I'm a very accomplished man," said Naveen. "I have an excellent teacher. She works twice as hard as anyone else. Three times." He reached up to touch her cheek. "You're tired," he said, "and I'm keeping you up."

She smiled into his palm. "Not anymore, you're not. Because I," she said, "am going to bed."

"And I," said Naveen, "am going to finish these dishes." He made a face.

"You could do that," Tiana said, thoughtful. "Or you could just come up with me."

"Are you suggesting I shirk my responsibilities?" he called after her. "That I leave this job half-done, maybe to forget?"

Tiana turned around at the threshold to the next room, her fingers resting lightly on the frame. "You coming or not? I'm not standing here all night waiting for you to make up your mind."

"Luckily," said Naveen, "my mind is now made up."

He followed her up the stairs.

This story was originally posted at livejournal on 12/23/2009.

Perhapsormaybe: for what it's worth, I've definitely used "y'all" in the singular, as have my family and a number of people I've spoken with over the years. Not, like, all the time or anything, and you're totally right, it isn't grammatically correct, but we've used it and we'll probably keep using it.

(Less with the personal anecdata: "Y'all" is used in the singular at least once in the film, when Dr Facilier tells Tiana, "Y'all should've taken my deal." So! I don't know, I felt it was worth mentioning.)